THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  MODERN  VERSE. 
THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  POETS. 
THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  MODERN  VERSE. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NBW  YORK 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 
OF  MODERN  VERSE 


THE   SECOND   BOOK  OF 
MODERN  VERSE 

A 

SELECTION  FROM  THE  WORK 

OF  CONTEMPORANEOUS 

AMERICAN  POETS 


EDITED  BY 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cfce  ffitetfibe  $119$  Camhrit>0e 

1919 


s 


COPYRIGHT,  IQig,  BY  JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


FOREWORD 

IT  was  my  intention,  when  preparing  The  Little  Book 
of  Modern  Verse,  published  in  1913,  to  continue  the 
series  by  a  volume  once  in  five  years,  but  as  it  seemed 
inadvisable  to  issue  one  during  the  war,  it  is  now  six 
years  since  the  publication  of  the  first  volume. 

In  the  meantime,  that  the  series  might  cover  the 
period  of  American  poetry  from  the  beginning,  The 
Little  Book  of  American  Poets  was  edited,  confined 
chiefly  to  work  of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  ending 
with  a  group  of  living  poets  whose  work  has  fallen 
equally  within  our  own  period.  This  group,  includ 
ing  Edwin  Markham,  Bliss  Carman,  Edith  Thomas, 
Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese, 
and  many  others  whose  work  has  enriched  both  pe 
riods,  was  fully  represented  also  in  The  Little  Book  of 
Modern  Verse;  and  it  has  seemed  necessary,  therefore, 
keenly  as  I  regret  the  necessity,  which  limits  of  space 
impose,  to  omit  the  work  of  all  poets  who  have  been 
represented  in  both  of  my  former  collections. 

Indeed  the  period  covered  by  the  present  volume 
has  been  so  prolific  that  it  became  necessary,  if  one 
would  represent  it  with  even  approximate  adequacy, 
to  forego  including  many  poets  from  The  Little  Book  of 
Modern  Verse  itself,  and  but  twenty-eight  are  repeated 
from  that  collection. 

Even  with  these  necessary  eliminations  in  the  in 
terest  of  space  for  newer  poets,  the  general  scheme 
of  the  series  —  that  of  small,  intimate  volumes  that 
shall  be  typical  of  the  period,  rather  than  exhaustive 
—  has  made  it  impossible  to  include  all  whose  work 
I  should  otherwise  have  been  glad  to  represent. 


vi  FOREWORD 


While  I  have  not  hesitated,  where  a  poet's  earlier 
work  seemed  finer  and  more  characteristic  than  his 
later,  to  draw  upon  such  earlier  work,  in  the  main  The 
Second  Book  of  Modern  Verse  has  been  selected  from 
poetry  published  since  1913,  the  date  of  my  first 
anthology. 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 

NEW  YORK 
September  £3,  1919 


#p 


CONTENTS 

Abraham  Lincoln  walks  at  Midnight.    Vachel  Lindsay  .  157 

Acceptance.    Willard  Wattles 26 

Ad  Matrem  Amantissimam  et  Carissimam  Filii  in  JSter- 

num  Fidelitas.   John  Myers  O'Hara 203 

After  Apple-Picking.    Robert  Frost 185 

After  Sunset.    Grace  Hazard  Conkling 86 

Afternoon  on  a  Hill.    Edna  St.  Vincent  MiUay         .       .     84 

Afterwards.   Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 203 

Ambition.   Aline  Kilmer 127 

Ancient  Beautiful  Things,  The.   Fannie  Stearns  Davis  .  128 

Apology.   Amy  Lowell 178 

April  on  the  Battlefields.    Leonora  Speyer          .       .       .  168 
April  —  North  Carolina.   Harriet  Monroe  ....     14 

Atropos.   John  Myers  O'Hara 213 

Autumn.   Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 186 

Autumn  Movement.    Carl  Sandburg 188 

Ballad  of  a  Child.   John  G.  Neihardt 124 

Behind  the  House  is  the  Millet  Plot.  Muna  Lee    .       .  182 

Berkshires  in  April.    Clement  Wood 6 

Beyond  Rathkelly.   Francis  Carlin 78 

Birches.   Robert  Frost 91 

Bitter  Herb,  The.   Jeanne  Robert  Foster      .      .      .       .181 

Blind.   Harry  Kemp 13 

Blue  Squills.   Sara  Teasdale 8 

Breaking,  The.   Margaret  Steele  Anderson   ....    29 

Chanson  of  the  Bells  of  Oseney.   Cole  Young  Rice  .      .    25 
Chant  of  the  Colorado,  The.   Cole  Young  Rice        .      .     96 

Child  in  Me,  The.   May  Riley  Smith 141 

Chinese  Nightingale,  The.    Vachel  Lindsay        ...     37 

Choice.   Angela  Morgan 75 

Cinquains.   Adelaide  Crapsey 206 


viii  CONTENTS 


City,  The.    Charles  Hanson  Towns 94 

City  Roofs.    Charles  Hanson  Towne 55 

Compensation.    William  Ellery  Leonard      ....  65 

Convention.   Agnes  Lee Ill 

Cradle  Song.   Josephine  Preston  Peabody    ....  121 

Dark  Cavalier,  The.   Margaret  Widdemer    .       .       .       .199 

Day  before  April,  The.   Mary  Carolyn  Davies  ...  6 

Days.    Karle  Wilson  Baker 82 

Death  —  Divination.    Charles  Wharton  Stork     .       .       .  201 

Dialogue.    Walter  Conrad  Arensberg 180 

Dilemma.   Orrick  Johns 31 

Doors.   Hermann  Hagedorn 193 

Dream.   Anna  Hempstead  Branch 20 

Dream  of  Aengus  Og,  The.    Eleanor  Rogers  Cox      .       .  73 

Dusk  at  Sea.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 51 

Earth.   John  Hall  Wheelock 9 

Earth's  Easter.    Robert  Haven  Schavjfler      .       .       .       .169 

Ellis  Park.   Helen  Hoyt 82 

Enchanted  Sheepfold,  The.   Josephine  Preston  Peabody  67 

Envoi.   Josephine  Preston  Peabody 119 

Evening  Song  of  Senlin.    Conrad  Aiken       ....  99 

Exile  from  God.   John  Hall  Wheelock 208 

Eye-Witness.    Ridgely  Torrence 56 

Falconer  of  God,  The.    William  Rose  Benet       ...  30 

"Feuerzauber."   Louis  Untermeyer 90 

Fields,  The.    Witter  Bynner 170 

Fifty  Years  Spent.   Maxwell  Struthers  Burt       ...  93 

First  Food,  The.    George  Sterling 134 

Flammonde.    Edwin  Arlington  Robinson     ....  33 

Flower  of  Mending,  The.    Vachel  Lindsay  ....  71 

Four  Sonnets.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 22 

Francis  Ledwidge.    Grace  Hazard  Conkling        .       .       .  167 

Gift,  The.   Louis  V.  Ledoux 128 

Girl's  Songs,  A.   Mary  Carolyn  Davies         ....  66 


CONTENTS  ix 


General   William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven.    Vachel 

Lindsay 63 

God's  Acre.    Witter  Bynner 62 

God's  World.   Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay       .      .       .       .188 

Good-Bye.   Norreys  Jephson  0' Conor 77 

Good  Company.    Karle  Wilson  Baker          ....  90 

Great  Hunt,  The.    Carl  Sandburg 179 

Harbury.   Louise  Driscoll 52 

Have  you  an  Eye.   Edwin  Ford  Piper 184 

Heat.   H.  D 102 

Hill  Wife,  The.    Robert  Frost 116 

Hills  of  Home.    Witter  Bynner 209 

Homeland,  The.   Dana  Burnet 120 

How  much  of  Godhood.  Louis  Untermeyer  .  .  .  134 
Hrolf's  Tnrall,  His  Song.  Willard  Wattles  .  .  .144 

"I  am  in  Love  with  High  Far-Seeing  Places."    Arthur 

Davison  Ficke 74 

I  have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death.  Alan  Seeger  .  .  164 
"I  Pass  a  Lighted  Window."  Clement  Wood  .  .  .192 

Idealists.   Alfred  Kreymborg 12 

Idol-Maker  prays,  The.  Arthur  Guiterman  ...  28 
"If  you  should  tire  of  loving  me."  Margaret  Widdemer  .  70 
Indian  Summer.  William  Ellery  Leonard  ....  199 

In  Excelsis.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 7 

In  the  Hospital.   Arthur  Guiterman 27 

In  the  Monastery.  Norreys  Jephson  0' Conor  .  .  .  191 
In  the  Mushroom  Meadows.  Thomas  Walsh  ...  80 
In  Patris  Mei  Memoriam.  John  Myers  O'Hara  .  .  202 
In  Spite  of  War.  Angela  Morgan  .  .  .  .  .  170 

Interlude.    Scudder  Middleton 69 

Interpreter,  The.   Orrick  Johns 145 

Invocation.    Clara  Shanafelt 20 

Irish  Love  Song.   Margaret  Widdemer 194 

Jerico.   Willard  Wattles  ....  173 


CONTENTS 


Kings  are  passing  Deathward,  The.    David  Morton  .      .  173 

Lady,  A.   Amy  Lowell 140 

Last  Piper,  The.    Edward  J.  O'Brien    .       .     ' .       .       .209 

Lincoln.   John  Gould  Fletcher 153 

Little  Things.   Orrick  Johns 18 

Loam.    Carl  Sandburg 208 

Lonely  Burial.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet  ,  .  .  .164 
Lonely  Death,  The.  Adelaide  Crapsey  ....  207 
Love  is  a  Terrible  Thing.  Grace  Fallow  Norton  .  .  47 

Love  Song,  A.    Theodosia  Garrison 119 

Love  Songs.    Sara  Teasdale 45 

Lover  envies  an  Old  Man,  The.  Shaemas  0  Sheel  .  .  69 
Lynmouth  Widow,  A.  Amelia  Josephine  Burr  .  .  54 

Madonna  of  the  Evening  Flowers.   Amy  Lowell      .       .  103 

Mad  Blake.    William  Rose  Benet Ill 

Mater  Dolorosa.   Louis  V.  Ledoux 132 

Men  of  Harlan.  William  Aspinwall  Bradley  .  .  .  182 
Monk  in  the  Kitchen,  The.  Anna  Hempstead  Branch  .  135 
Morning  Song  of  Senlin.  Conrad  Aiken  ....  87 
Most-Sacred  Mountain,  The.  Eunice  Tietjens  ...  95 

Moth-Terror.   Benjamin  De  Casseres 212 

Mould,  The.   Gladys  Cromwell 202 

Music  I  heard.   Conrad  Aiken 50 

Muy  Vieja  Mexicana.   Alice  Corbin 143 

Name,  The.   Anna  Hempstead  Branch 112 

Narrow  Doors,  The.  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  .  .  .  191 
New  Dreams  for  Old.  Cale  Young  Rice  .  .  .  .19 

New  God,  The.   James  Oppenheim 104 

Nirvana.   John  Hall  Wheelock 195 

Note  from  the  Pipes,  A.  Leonora  Speyer  ....  83 
Nun,  A.  Odell  Shepherd 196 

Of  One  Self-Slain.    Charles  Hanson  Towne         .      .      .110 

Old  Age.    Cale  Young  Rice 212 

Old  Amaze.  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 85 


CONTENTS  xi 


Old  King  Cole.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  ....  145 

Old  Manuscript.    Alfred  Kreymborg 98 

Old  Ships.    David  Morton 51 

Omnium  Exeunt  in  Mysterium.   George  Sterling      .       .211 

Open  Windows.    Sara  Teasdale 84 

Orchard.   H.  D 101 

Our  Little  House.    Thomas  Walsh 120 

Overnight,  a  Rose.    Caroline  Giltinan 27 

Overtones.    William  Alexander  Percy 189 

Path  Flower.   Olive  TUford  Dargan 15 

Path  that  leads  to  Nowhere,  The.      Corinne  Roosevelt 

Robinson 81 

Patterns.   Amy  Lowell 105 

Peace.    Agnes  Lee 172 

Pierrette  in  Memory.    William  Griffith 204 

Poets.   Joyce  Kilmer 26 

Prayer  during  Battle.   Hermann  Hagedorn        .       .       .  158 

Prayer  of  a  Soldier  in  France.   Joyce  Kilmer     .       .       .  159 

Prevision.   Aline  Kilmer 132 

Provinces,  The.   Francis  Carlin 210 

Reveille.    Louis  Untermeyer ,29 

Richard  Cory.   Edwin  Arlington  Robinson         .       .       .  109 

Road  not  taken,  The.    Robert  Frost 3 

Romance.    Scudder  Middleton 76 

Rouge  Bouquet.   Joyce  Kilmer 165 

Runner  in  the  Skies,  The.   James  Oppenheim    ...     99 

Saint's  Hours,  A.   Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 139 

Silence.   Edgar  Lee  Masters 196 

Silent  Folk,  The.    Charles  Wharton  Stork    .       .       .       .110 

Slumber  Song.    Louis  V.  Ledoux 124 

Smith,  of  the  Third  Oregon,  dies.  Mary  Carolyn  Davies  .  162 

Son,  The.   Ridgely  Torrence 142 

Song.   Margaret  Steele  Anderson 76 

Song.   Adelaide  Crapsey 205 

Song.   Edward  J.  O'Brien         ...,,,.  163 


xii  CONTENTS 


Song.   Margaret  Widdemer 181 

Song  of  two  Wanderers,  A.  Marguerite  Wilkinson  .  79 
Songs  of  an  Empty  House.  Marguerite  Wilkinson  .  .115 
Spoon  River  Anthology.  Edgar  Lee  Masters  .  .  .  148 

Spring.   John  Gould  Fletcher 4 

Spring  in  Carmel.    George  Sterling 48 

Spring  Song.    William  Griffith 5 

Students.   Florence  Wilkinson  . 175 

Symbol.   David  Morton 5 

Tampico.   Grace  Hazard  Conkling 177 

"There  will  come  Soft  Rain."   Sara  Teasdale    ...      5 

Three  Sisters.   Arthur  Davison  Ficke 205 

Thrush  in  the  Moonlight,  A.  Witter  Bynner  .  .  .100 
To  a  Portrait  of  Whistler  in  the  Brooklyn  Art  Museum. 

Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 32 

To  Any  one.   Witter  Bynner 172 

Trees.   Joyce  Kilmer 12 

Unknown  Beloved,  The.   John  Hall  Wheelock  .       .       .205 

Valley  Song.    Carl  Sandburg 48 

Venus  Transiens.   Amy  Lowell 72 

Voyage  a  1'Infini.   Walter  Conrad  Arensberg      ...     86 

Wanderer,  The.   Zoe  Akins 52 

Water  Ouzel,  The.     Harriet  Monroe 97 

When  the  Year  grows  Old.  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay  .  189 
Where  Love  is.  Amelia  Josephine  Burr  ....  68 
Where  Love  once  was.  James  Oppenheim  .  .  .  194 

Which.    Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 177 

White  Comrade,  The.   Robert  Haven  Schauffler .       .       .159 

Wide  Haven.    Clement  Wood 171 

Wind  Rose  in  the  Night,  A.  Aline  Kilmer  .       .       .       .133 

Yellow  Warblers.  Katharine  Lee  Bates  ....  13 
You.  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 74 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THANKS  are  due  to  the  following  publishers,  editors, 
and  individual  owners  of  copyright  for  their  kind  per 
mission  to  include  selections  from  the  volumes  enu 
merated  below : 

To  the  estate  of  Edmund  Brooks  for  a  selection  from  "  A 
Lark  Went  Singing,"  by  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding. 

To  the  Century  Company  for  selections  from  "Trails  Sun 
ward,"  "Wraiths  and  Realities,"  and  "Collected  Poems"  of 
Cale  Young  Rice;  "Challenge"  by  Louis  Untermeyer; 
"Songs  for  the  New  Age"  and  "War  and  Laughter"  by 
James  Oppenheim;  and  for  "After  Sunset"  by  Grace  Haz 
ard  Conkling,  from  the  Century  Magazine. 

To  the  Cornhill  Company  for  selections  from  "The  Divine 
Image,"  by  Caroline  Giltinan. 

To  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "The 
Retinue,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Katharine  Lee  Bates  (copy 
right,  1918),  "Lanterns  in  Gethsemane,"  by  Willard  Wat 
tles  (copyright,  1918),  and  "The  Earth  Turns  South,"  by 
Clement  Wood  (copyright,  1919). 

To  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "A 
Masque  of  Poets,"  edited  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien. 

To  Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  selections  from 
"Joyce  Kilmer:  Poems,  Essays  and  Letters,"  edited  by 
Robert  Cortes  Holliday  (copyright,  1918);  "Candles  That 
Burn,"  by  Aline  Kilmer  (copyright,  1919);  "The  Dreamers," 
by  Theodosia  Garrison  (copyright,  1917);  "Fifes  and  Drums" 
(copyright,  1917);  "The  Roadside  Fire"  (copyright,  1912) 
and  "In  Deep  Places"  (copyright,  1914),  by  Amelia  Jose 
phine  Burr;  "To-Day  and  To-Morrow"  (copyright,  1916) 
and  "World  of  Windows"  (copyright,  1919),  by  Charles 
Hanson  Towne. 

To  The  Four  Seas  Company  for  selections  from  "The 
Charnel  Rose,"  by  Conrad  Aiken. 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "North 


xiv  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

of  Boston"  and  "Mountain  Interval,"  by  Robert  Frost; 
"Chicago  Poems"  and  " Cornhuskers,"  by  Carl  Sandburg; 
"These  Times,"  by  Louis  Untermeyer;  "Portraits  and  Pro 
tests,"  by  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn;  "The  Factories,  and  Other 
Poems"  and  ''The  Old  Road  to  Paradise,"  by  Margaret 
Widdemer;  and  "My  Ireland,"  by  Francis  Carlin. 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  selections  from 
"Rose  of  the  Wind,"  by  Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  "The 
Singing  Leaves"  and  "Harvest  Moon,"  by  Josephine  Pres 
ton  Peabody;  "A  Sister  of  the  Wind,"  by  Grace  Fallow  Nor 
ton;  "Sea  Garden,"  by  H.  D.;  for  the  poem  "Lincoln,"  by 
John  Gould  Fletcher,  from  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1917"; 
"In  the  High  Hills,"  by  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt;  "Old 
Christmas  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales,"  by  William  Aspin- 
wall  Bradley;  "Turns  and  Movies,"  by  Conrad  Aiken;  "A 
Lonely  Flute,"  by  Odell  Shepherd;  "Idols,"  by  Walter  Con 
rad  Arensberg;  and  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  the  use  of  "  The 
Ancient  Beautiful  Things"  and  "The  Narrow  Doors,"  by 
Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 

To  Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros,  for  selections  from  "Poems," 
by  Dana  Burnet,  "The  Mirthful  Lyre,"  by  Arthur  Guiter- 
man,  and  for  the  poem  "There  Will  Come  Soft  Rain,"  by 
Sara  Teasdale,  from  Harper's  Magazine. 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  selections  from  "Growing 
Pains,"  by  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer,  and  "  The  Vaunt  of  Man," 
by  William  Ellery  Leonard. 

To  Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  selections  from  "Renas 
cence  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay;  "Son 
nets  of  a  Portrait  Painter"  and  "The  Man  on  the  Hill-Top," 
by  Arthur  Davison  Ficke;  and  for  the  poems,  "Blind,"  by 
Harry  Kemp,  and  "The  Wanderer,"  by  Zoe  Akins. 

To  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Knopf  for  selections  from  "Asphalt,"  by 
Orrick  Johns;  "Mushrooms,"  by  Alfred  Kreymborg;  and 
"Profiles  from  China,"  by  Eunice  Tietjens. 

To  the  John  Lane  Company  for  selections  from  "Forward, 
March,"  by  Angela  Morgan;  "Songs  of  the  Celtic  Past,"  by 
Norreys  Jephson  O' Conor;  "Singing  Fires  of  Erin,"  by 
Eleanor  Rogers  Cox;  and  "Gardens  Overseas,"  by  Thomas 
Walsh. 

To  The  Macmillan  Company  for  selections  from  "The 
Man  Against  the  Sky,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson; 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xv 

"General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven,  and  Other 
Poems,"  "The  Congo,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  "The  Chinese 
Nightingale  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Vachel  Lindsay;  "Songs 
and  Satires"  and  "Spoon  River  Anthology,"  by  Edgar  Lee 
Masters;  "Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,"  "Men,  Women 
and  Ghosts,"  and  "Pictures  of  the  Floating  World,"  by 
Amy  Lowell;  "Love  Songs,"  by  Sara  Teasdale;  "Poems 
and  Ballads,"  by  Hermann  Hagedorn;  " The  Story  of  Eleu- 
sis,"  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux;  "The  New  Day,"  by  Scudder 
Middleton;  "The  Drums  in  Our  Street,"  by  Mary  Carolyn 
Davies;  and  "The  Quest,"  by  John  G.  Neihardt. 

To  The  Midland  Press  for  a  selection  from  "Barbed 
Wire,"  by  Edwin  Ford  Piper. 

To  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Mosher  for  selections  from  "The  Voice 
in  the  Silence,"  by  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

To  Messrs.  John  P.  Morton  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "A 
Flame  in  the  Wind,"  by  Margaret  Steele  Anderson. 

To  The  Manas  Press  for  selections  from  "Verse"  by  Ade 
laide  Crapsey. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  selections  from  "The 
Shadow  of  yEtna,"  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux. 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  selections  from 
"White  Fountains,"  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien. 

To  Mr.  A.  M.  Robertson  for  the  use  of  the  poem,  "Om 
nium  Exeunt,"  by  George  Sterling. 

To  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  selections  from 
"Path-Flower,"  by  Olive  Tilford  Dargan;  "The  Children 
of  the  Night,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  "One  Woman 
to  Another"  and  "Service  and  Sacrifice,"  by  Corinne 
Roosevelt  Robinson;  "Poems,"  by  Alan  Seeger;  "Dust  and 
Light,"  by  John  Hall  Wheelock;  and  for  the  poems, 
"Eye- Witness,"  by  Ridgely  Torrence,  and  "In  the  Hos 
pital,"  by  Arthur  Guiterman,  from  Scribner's  Magazine. 

To  Messrs.  Smith  &  Sale  for  selections  from  "Threnodies," 
by  John  Myers  O'Hara. 

To  Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  selections 
from  "Grenstone  Poems,"  by  Witter  Bynner. 

To  Mr.  Robert  J.  Shores  for  selections  from  "The  Loves 
and  Losses  of  Pierrot,"  by  William  Griffith. 

To  Mr.  James  T.  White  for  selections  from  "City  Pastor 
als,"  by  William  Griffith. 


xvi  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  The  Wilmarth  Company  for  selections  from  "The 
Shadow  Eater,"  by  Benjamin  De  Casseres. 

To  the  Yale  University  Press  for  selections  from  "The 
Falconer  of  God"  and  "The  Burglar  of  the  Zodiac,"  by 
William  Rose  Benet;  "  Young  Adventure "  by  Stephen 
Vincent  Benet,  and  "Blue  Smoke,"  by  Karl  Wilson  Baker. 

To  the  Yale  Review  for  the  use  of  "Open  Windows,"  by 
Sara  Teasdale. 

To  Miss  Harriet  Monroe,  editor  of  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  for  the  use  of  the  following  selections:  "Indian  Sum 
mer,"  by  William  Ellery  Leonard;  "Song,"  "Let  It  Be  For 
gotten,"  by  Sara  Teasdale;  "The  Mould,"  by  Gladys  Crom 
well;  "Ellis  Park,"  by  Helen  Hoyt;  "Harbury,"  by  Louise 
Driscoll;  "Muy  Vieja  Mexicana,"  by  Alice  Corbin  Hender 
son;  "Hrolf's  Thrall,"  by  Willard  Wattles;  "Invocation," 
by  Clara  Shanafelt;  "Peace"  and  "Convention,"  by  Agnes 
Lee;  "The  Millet  Plot,"  by  Muna  Lee;  "Students,"  by 
Florence  Wilkinson;  "Tampico,"  by  Grace  Hazard  Conk- 
ling;  "To  a  Portrait  of  Whistler  in  the  Brooklyn  Art  Mu 
seum,"  by  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox;  and  "April  —  North  Caro 
lina"  and  "The  Water  Ouzel,"  by  Harriet  Monroe. 

To  William  Stanley  Braithwaite  for  the  use  of  "Spring," 
by  John  Gould  Fletcher,  first  published  in  The  Poetry  Review 
of  America. 

To  Charles  Wharton  Stork,  editor  of  Contemporary  Verse, 
for  "April  on  the  Battlefields,"  by  Leonora  Speyer;  "Songs 
of  an  Empty  House,"  by  Marguerite  Wilkinson;  and  for 
permission  to  use  his  own  poems,  "Death  —  Divination," 
and  "The  Silent  Folk." 

To  Everybody's  Magazine  for  permission  to  use  "  A  Song  of 
Two  Wanderers,"  by  Marguerite  Wilkinson,  and  "  Old  Ships," 
by  David  Morton. 

To  the  Nation  for  "A  Note  from  the  Pipes,"  by  Leonora 
Speyer. 

To  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher,  editor  of  The  Sonnet,  for  the 
use  of  his  poems,  "Afterwards"  and  "Old  Amaze." 

To  the  Outlook  lor  "The  White  Comrade,"  by  Robert  Haven 
Schaufiler. 

To  the  New  Republic  for  "The  Son,"  by  Ridgely  Torrence. 

To  the  Bellman  for  "The  Kings  are  passing  Deathward," 
by  David  Morton. 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 
OF  MODERN  VERSE 


THE  ROAD  NOT  TAKEN 

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood, 
And  sorry  I  could  not  travel  both 
And  be  one  traveler,  long  I  stood 
And  looked  down  one  as  far  as  I  could 
To  where  it  bent  in  the  undergrowth; 

Then  took  the  other,  as  just  as  fair, 
And  having  perhaps  the  better  claim, 
Because  it  was  grassy  and  wanted  wear; 
Though  as  for  that  the  passing  there 
Had  worn  them  really  about  the  same, 

And  both  that  morning  equally  lay 
In  leaves  no  step  had  trodden  black. 
Oh,  I  kept  the  first  for  another  day! 
Yet  knowing  how  way  leads  on  to  way, 
I  doubted  if  I  should  ever  come  back. 

I  shall  be  telling  this  with  a  sigh 
Somewhere  ages  and  ages  hence: 
Two  roads  diverged  in  a  wood,  and  I  — 
I  took  the  one  less  traveled  by, 
And  that  has  made  all  the  difference. 

Robert  Frost 

SYMBOL 

MY  faith  is  all  a  doubtful  thing, 
Wove  on  a  doubtful  loom,  — 

Until  there  comes,  each  showery  spring, 
A  cherry-tree  in  bloom; 


^SPRING 


v  ^  -  ^An&Gh-HstVho  died  upon  a  tree 
That  death  had  stricken  bare, 
Comes  beautifully  back  to  me, 
In  blossoms,  everywhere. 

David  Morton 

SPRING 

AT  the  first  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  " Arise." 

At  the  second  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Go  forth." 

And  the  winter  constellations  that  are  like  patient 

ox-eyes 
Sank  below  the  white  horizon  at  the  north. 

At  the  third  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "I  thirst"; 

At  the  fourth  hour,  all  the  earth  was  still : 

Then  the  clouds  suddenly  swung  over,  stooped,  and 

burst; 
And  the  rain  flooded  valley,  plain  and  hill. 

At  the  fifth  hour,  darkness  took  the  throne; 

At  the  sixth  hour,  the  earth  shook  and   the -wind 

cried; 

At  the  seventh  hour,  the  hidden  seed  was  sown; 
At  the  eighth  hour,  it  gave  up  the  ghost  and  died. 

At  the  ninth  hour,  they  sealed  up  the  tomb; 

And  the  earth  was  then  silent  for  the  space  of  three 

hours. 

But  at  the  twelfth  hour,  a  single  lily  from  the  gloom 
Shot  forth,  and  was  followed  by  a  whole  host  of 

flowers. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 


SPRING  SONG 


"THERE  WILL  COME  SOFT  RAIN" 

THERE  will  come  soft  rain  and  the  smell  of  the  ground, 

And  swallows  circling  with  their  shimmering  sound; 

• 

And  frogs  in  the  pools  singing  at  night, 
And  wild  plum-trees  in  tremulous  white; 

Robins  will  wear  their  feathery  fire 
Whistling  their  whims  on  a  low  fence-wire. 

And  not  one  will  know  of  the  war,  not  one 
Will  care  at  last  when  it  is  done. 

Not  one  would  mind,  neither  bird  nor  tree, 
If  mankind  perished  utterly. 

And  Spring  herself  when  she  woke  at  dawn, 
Would  scarcely  know  that  we  were  gone. 

Sara  Teasdale 

ft 

SPRING  SONG 

SOFTLY  at  dawn  a  whisper  stole 

Down  from  the  Green  House  on  the  Hill, 

Enchanting  many  a  ghostly  bole 

And  wood-song  with  the  ancient  thrill. 

Gossiping  on  the  country-side, 

Spring  and  the  wandering  breezes  say, 

God  has  thrown  Heaven  open  wide 
And  let  the  thrushes  out  to-day. 

William  Griffith 


BERKSHIRES  IN  APRIL 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  APRIL 

THE  day  before  April 

Alone,  alone, 
I  walked  in  the  woods 

And  I  sat  on  a  stone. 

I  sat  on  a  broad  stone 

And  sang  to  the  birds. 
The  tune  was  God's  making 

But  I  made  the  words. 

Mary  Carolyn  Dames 

BERKSHIRES  IN  APRIL 

IT  is  not  Spring  —  not  yet  — 
But  at  East  Schaghticoke  I  saw  an  ivory  birch 
Lifting  a  filmy  red  mantle  of  knotted  buds 
Above  the  rain-washed  whiteness  of  her  arms. 

It  is  not  Spring  —  not  yet  — 

But  at  Hoosick  Falls  I  saw  a  robin  strutting, 

Thin,  still,  and  fidgety, 

Not  like  the  puffed,  complacent  ball  of  feathers 

That  dawdles  over  the  cidery  Autumn  loam. 

It  is  not  Spring  —  not  yet  — 

But  up  the  stocky  Pownal  hills 

Some  springy  shrub,  a  scarlet  gash  on  the  grayness, 

Climbs,  flaming,  over  the  melting  snows. 

It  is  not  Spring  —  not  yet  — 
But  at  Williamstown  the  willows  are  young  and 
golden, 


IN  EXCELSIS 


Their  tall  tips  flinging  the  sun's  rays  back  at  him; 
And  as  the  sun  drags  over  the  Berkshire  crests, 
The  willows  glow,  the  scarlet  bushes  burn, 
The  high  hill  birches  shine  like  purple  plumes, 
A  royal  headdress  for  the  brow  of  Spring. 
It  is  the  doubtful,  unquiet  end  of  Winter, 
And  Spring  is  pulsing  out  of  the  wakening  soil. 

Clement  Wood 

IN  EXCELSIS 

SPRING! 

And  all  our  valleys  turning  into  green, 

Remembering  — 

As  I  remember !   So  my  heart  turns  glad 

For  so  much  youth  and  joy  —  this  to  have  had 

When  in  my  veins  the  tide  of  living  fire 

Was  at  its  flow; 

This  to  know, 

When  now  the  miracle  of  young  desire 

Burns  on  the  hills,  and  Spring's  sweet  choristers 

again 

Chant  from  each  tree  and  every  bush  aflame 
Love's  wondrous  name; 
This  under  youth's  glad  reign, 
With  all  the  valleys  turning  into  green  — 
This  to  have  heard  and  seen! 

And  Song! 

Once  to  have  known  what  every  wakened  bird 

Has  heard; 

Once  to  have  entered  into  that  great  harmony 

Of  love's  creation,  and  to  feel 

The  pulsing  waves  of  wonder  steal 


BLUE  SQUILLS 


Through  all  my  being;  once  to  be 

In  that  same  sea 

Of  wakened  joy  that  stirs  in  every  tree 

And  every  bird;  and  then  to  sing  — 

To  sing  aloud  the  endless  Song  of  Spring! 

Waiting,  I  turn  to  Thee, 
Expectant,  humble,  and  on  bended  knee; 
Youth's  radiant  fire 

Only  to  burn  at  Thy  unknown  desire  — 
For  this  alone  has  Song  been  granted  me. 
Upon  Thy  altar  burn  me  at  Thy  will; 
All  wonders  fill 
My  cup,  and  it  is  Thine; 
Life's  precious  wine 
For  this  alone:  for  Thee. 
Yet  never  can  be  paid 
The  debt  long  laid 

Upon  my  heart,  because  my  lips  did  press 
In  youth's  glad  Spring  the  Cup  of  Loveliness ! 
Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

BLUE  SQUILLS 

How  many  million  Aprils  came 

Before  I  ever  knew 
How  white  a  cherry  bough  could  be, 

A  bed  of  squills,  how  blue. 

And  many  a  dancing  April 

When  life  is  done  with  me, 
Will  lift  the  blue  flame  of  the  flower 

And  the  white  flame  of  the  tree. 


EARTH 


Oh,  burn  me  with  your  beauty,  then, 

Oh,  hurt  me,  tree  and  flower, 
Lest  in  the  end  death  try  to  take 

Even  this  glistening  hour. 

O  shaken  flowers,  O  shimmering  trees, 

O  sunlit  white  and  blue, 
Wound  me,  that  I  through  endless  sleep 

May  bear  the  scar  of  you. 

Sara  TeasdaU 


EARTH 

GRASSHOPPER,  your  fairy  song 

And  my  poem  alike  belong 

To  the  dark  and  silent  earth 

From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 

All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 

Is  but  as  the  murmuring 

Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 

When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 

If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 

You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 

Deftly  does  the  dust  express 
In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 
And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 
The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream; 
For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 
Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies. 
Equally  her  beauty  flows 
Into  a  savior,  or  a  rose  — 


10  EARTH 


Looks  down  in  dream,  and  from  above 
Smiles  at  herself  in  Jesus'  love. 
Christ's  love  and  Homer's  art 
Are  but  the  workings  of  her  heart; 
Through  Leonardo's  hand  she  seeks 
Herself,  and  through  Beethoven  speaks 
In  holy  thunderings  around 
The  awful  message  of  the  ground. 

The  serene  and  humble  mold 
Does  in  herself  all  selves  enfold  — 
Kingdoms,  destinies,  and  creeds, 
Great  dreams,  and  dauntless  deeds, 
Science  that  metes  the  firmament, 
The  high,  inflexible  intent 
Of  one  for  many  sacrificed  — 
Plato's  brain,  the  heart  of  Christ: 
All  love,  all  legend,  and  all  lore 
Are  in  the  dust  forevermore. 

Even  as  the  growing  grass 

Up  from  the  soil  religions  pass, 

And  the  field  that  bears  the  rye 

Bears  parables  and  prophecy. 

Out  of  the  earth  the  poem  grows 

Like  the  lily,  or  the  rose; 

And  all  man  is,  or  yet  may  be, 

Is  but  herself  in  agony 

Toiling  up  the  steep  ascent 

Toward  the  complete  accomplishment 

When  all  dust  shall  be,  the  whole 

Universe,  one  conscious  soul. 

Yea,  the  quiet  and  cool  sod 

Bears  in  her  breast  the  dream  of  God. 


EARTH  11 


If  you  would  know  what  earth  is,  scan 
The  intricate,  proud  heart  of  man, 
Which  is  the  earth  articulate, 
And  learn  how  holy  and  how  great, 
How  limitless  and  how  profound 
Is  the  nature  of  the  ground  — 
How  without  terror  or  demur 
We  may  entrust  ourselves  to  her 
When  we  are  wearied  out,  and  lay 
Our  faces  in  the  common  clay. 

For  she  is  pity,  she  is  love, 

All  wisdom  she,  all  thoughts  that  move 

About  her  everlasting  breast 

Till  she  gathers  them  to  rest: 

All  tenderness  of  all  the  ages, 

Seraphic  secrets  of  the  sages, 

Vision  and  hope  of  all  the  seers, 

All  prayer,  all  anguish,  and  all  tears 

Are  but  the  dust,  that  from  her  dream 

Awakes,  and  knows  herself  supreme  — 

Are  but  earth  when  she  reveals 

All  that  her  secret  heart  conceals 

Down  in  the  dark  and  silent  loam, 

Which  is  ourselves,  asleep,  at  home. 

Yea,  and  this,  my  poem,  too, 
Is  part  of  her  as  dust  and  dew, 
Wherein  herself  she  doth  declare 
Through  my  lips,  and  say  her  prayer. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 


IDEALISTS 


TREES 

I  THINK  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

Joyce  Kilmer 

IDEALISTS 

BROTHER  Tree : 

Why  do  you  reach  and  reach? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  touch  the  sky? 

Brother  Stream: 

Why  do  you  run  and  run? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  fill  the  sea? 

Brother  Bird: 

Why  do  you  sing  and  sing? 

Do  you  dream  — 

Young  Man: 

Why  do  you  talk  and  talk  and  talk  f 

Alfred  Kreymborg 


YELLOW  WARBLERS  13 

BLIND 

THE  Spring  blew  trumpets  of  color; 
Her  Green  sang  in  my  brain  — 
I  heard  a  blind  man  groping 
"Tap  —  tap"  with  his  cane; 

I  pitied  him  in  his  blindness; 

But  can  I  boast,  "I  see"  ?  V 

Perhaps  there  walks  a  spirit 

Close  by,  who  pities  me,  — 

A  spirit  who  hears  me  tapping 
The  five-sensed  cane  of  mind 
Amid  such  unguessed  glories  — 
That  I  am  worse  than  blind. 

Harry  Kemp 

YELLOW  WARBLERS 

THE  first  faint  dawn  was  flushing  up  the  skies 
When,  dreamland  still  bewildering  mine  eyes, 
I  looked  out  to  the  oak  that,  winter-long, 
—  a  winter  wild  with  war  and  woe  and  wrong  — 
Beyond  my  casement  had  been  void  of  song. 

And  lo!  with  golden  buds  the  twigs  were  set, 
Live  buds  that  warbled  like  a  rivulet 
Beneath  a  veil  of  willows.  Then  I  knew 
Those  tiny  voices,  clear  as  drops  of  dew, 
Those  flying  daffodils  that  fleck  the  blue, 

Those  sparkling  visitants  from  myrtle  isles, 
Wee  pilgrims  of  the  sun,  that  measure  miles 


14  APRIL  — NORTH  CAROLINA 

Innumerable  over  land  and  sea 

With  wings  of  shining  inches.   Flakes  of  glee, 

They  filled  that  dark  old  oak  with  jubilee, 

Foretelling  in  delicious  roundelays 

Their  dainty  courtships  on  the  dipping  sprays, 

How  they  should  fashion  nests,  mate  helping  mate, 

Of  milkweed  flax  and  fern-down  delicate 

To  keep  sky-tinted  eggs  inviolate. 

Listening  to  those  blithe  notes,  I  slipped  once  more 
From  lyric  dawn  through  dreamland's  open  door, 
And  there  was  God,  Eternal  Life  that  sings, 
Eternal  joy,  brooding  all  mortal  things, 
A  nest  of  stars,  beneath  untroubled  wings. 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 


APRIL  — NORTH  CAROLINA 

WOULD  you  not  be  in  Tryon 
Now  that  the  spring  is  here, 

When  mocking-birds  are  praising 
The  fresh,  the  blossomy  year? 

Look  —  on  the  leafy  carpet 
Woven  of  winter's  browns 

Iris  and  pink  azaleas 

Flutter  their  gaudy  gowns. 

The  dogwood  spreads  white  meshes 
So  white  and  light  and  high  — 

To  catch  the  drifting  sunlight 
Out  of  the  cobalt  sky. 


PATH  FLOWER  15 

The  pointed  beech  and  maple, 

The  pines,  dark-tufted,  tall, 
Pattern  with  many  colors 

The  mountain's  purple  wall. 

Hark  —  what  a  rushing  torrent 

Of  crystal  song  falls  sheer! 
Would  you  not  be  in  Tryon 

Now  that  the  spring  is  here? 

Harriet  Monroe 


PATH  FLOWER 

A  RED-CAP  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane, 
As  I  the  April  pathway  trod 

Bound  west  for  Willesden. 

At  foot  each  tiny  blade  grew  big 

And  taller  stood  to  hear, 
And  every  leaf  on  every  twig 

Was  like  a  little  ear. 

As  I  too  paused,  and  both  ways  tried 
To  catch  the  rippling  rain,  — 

So  still,  a  hare  kept  at  my  side 
His  tussock  of  disdain,  — 

Behind  me  close  I  heard  a  step, 

A  soft  pit-pat  surprise, 
And  looking  round  my  eyes  fell  deep 

Into  sweet  other  eyes; 


16  PATH  FLOWER 

The  eyes  like  wells,  where  sun  lies  too, 
So  clear  and  trustful  brown, 

Without  a  bubble  warning  you 
That  here 's  a  place  to  drown. 

"How  many  miles?"  Her  broken  shoes 
Had  told  of  more  than  one. 

She  answered  like  a  dreaming  Muse, 
"I  came  from  Islington." 

"  So  long  a  tramp?  "  Two  gentle  nods, 
Then  seemed  to  lift  a  wing, 

And  words  fell  soft  as  willow-buds, 
"I  came  to  find  the  Spring." 

A  timid  voice,  yet  not  afraid 

In  ways  so  sweet  to  roam, 
As  it  with  honey  bees  had  played 

And  could  no  more  go  home. 

Her  home!  I  saw  the  human  lair, 
I  heard  the  huckster's  bawl, 

I  stifled  with  the  thickened  air 
Of  bickering  mart  and  stall. 

Without  a  tuppence  for  a  ride, 

Her  feet  had  set  her  free. 
Her  rags,  that  decency  defied, 

Seemed  new  with  liberty. 

But  she  was  frail.  Who  would  might  note 

The  trail  of  hungering 
That  for  an  hour  she  had  forgot 

In  wonder  of  the  Spring. 


PATH  FLOWER  17 

So  shriven  by  her  joy  she  glowed 

It  seemed  a  sin  to  chat. 
(A  tea-shop  snuggled  off  the  road; 

Why  did  I  think  of  that?) 

Oh,  frail,  so  frail !  I  could  have  wept,  — 

But  she  was  passing  on, 
And  I  but  muddled,  "You'll  accept 

A  penny  for  a  bun?" 

Then  up  her  little  throat  a  spray 

Of  rose  climbed  for  it  must; 
A  wilding  lost  till  safe  it  lay 

Hid  by  her  curls  of  rust; 

And  I  saw  modesties  at  fence 

With  pride  that  bore  no  name; 
So  old  it  was  she  knew  not  whence 

It  sudden  woke  and  came; 

But  that  which  shone  of  all  most  clear 

Was  startled,  sadder  thought 
That  I  should  give  her  back  the  fear 

Of  life  she  had  forgot. 

And  I  blushed  for  the  world  we'd  made, 

Putting  God's  hand  aside, 
Till  for  the  want  of  sun  and  shade 

His  little  children  died; 

And  blushed  that  I  who  every  year 
With  Spring  went  up  and  down, 

Must  greet  a  soul  that  ached  for  her 
With  "penny  for  a  bun!" 


18  LITTLE  THINGS 

Struck  as  a  thief  in  holy  place 

Whose  sin  upon  him  cries, 
I  watched  the  flowers  leave  her  face, 

The  song  go  from  her  eyes. 

Then  she,  sweet  heart,  she  saw  my  rout, 

And  of  her  charity 
A  hand  of  grace  put  softly  out 

And  took  the  coin  from  me. 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane; 
But  I,  alone,  still  glooming  stood, 

And  April  plucked  in  vain; 

Till  living  words  rang  in  my  ears 

And  sudden  music  played: 
Out  of  such  sacred  thirst  as  hers 

The  world  shall  be  remade. 

Afar  she  turned  her  head  and  smiled 
As  might  have  smiled  the  Spring, 

And  humble  as  a  wondering  child 
I  watched  her  vanishing. 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


LITTLE  THINGS  v 

THERE'S  nothing  very  beautiful  and  nothing  very  gay 
About  the  rush  of  faces  in  the  town  by  day, 
But  a  light  tan  cow  in  a  pale  green  mead, 
That  is  very  beautiful,  beautiful  indeed  .  . 


NEW  DREAMS  FOR  OLD  19 

And  the  soft  March  wind  and  the  low  March  mist 
Are  better  than  kisses  in  a  dark  street  kissed  .  .  . 
The  fragrance  of  the  forest  when  it  wakes  at  dawn, 
The  fragrance  of  a  trim  green  village  lawn, 
The  hearing  of  the  murmur  of  the  rain  at  play  — 
These  things  are  beautiful,  beautiful  as  day! 
And  I  shan't  stand  waiting  for  love  or  scorn 
When  the  feast  is  laid  for  a  day  new-born  .  .  . 
Oh,  better  let  the  little  things  I  loved  when  little 
Return  when  the  heart  finds  the  great  things  brittle; 
And  better  is  a  temple  made  of  bark  and  thong 
Than  a  tall  stone  temple  that  may  stand  too  long. 

Orrick  Johns 

NEW  DREAMS  FOR  OLD 

Is  there  no  voice  in  the  world  to  come  crying, 

"New  dreams  for  old! 

New  for  old!"? 
Many  have  long  in  my  heart  been  lying, 

Faded,  weary,  and  cold. 
All  of  them,  all,  would  I  give  for  a  new  one. 

(Is  there  no  seeker 

Of  dreams  that  were?) 
Nor  would  I  ask  if  the  new  were  a  true  one: 

Only  for  new  dreams! 

New  for  old! 

For  I  am  here,  half  way  of  my  journey, 

Here  with  the  old! 

All  so  old! 

And  the  best  heart  with  death  is  at  tourney, 
If  naught  new  it  is  told. 


20  DREAM 


Will  there  no  voice,  then,  come  —  or  a  vision  — 

Come  with  the  beauty 

That  ever  blows 
Out  of  the  lands  that  are  called  Elysian? 

I  must  have  new  dreams! 

New  for  old! 

Gale  Young  Rice 

INVOCATION 

O  GLASS-BLOWER  of  time, 

Hast  blown  all  shapes  at  thy  fire? 
Canst  thou  no  lovelier  bell, 

No  clearer  bubble,  clear  as  delight,  inflate  me  — 
Worthy  to  hold  such  wine 

As  was  never  yet  trod  from  the  grape, 
Since  the  stars  shed  their  light,  since  the  moon 

Troubled  the  night  with  her  beauty? 

Clara  Shanafelt 

DREAM 

BUT  now  the  Dream  has  come  again,  the  world  is  as 
of  old. 

Once  more  I  feel  about  my  breast  the  heartening 
splendors  fold. 

Now  I  am  back  hi  that  good  place  from  which  my  foot 
steps  came, 

And  I  am  hushed  of  any  grief  and  have  laid  by  my 
shame. 

I  know  not  by  what  road  I  came  —  oh  wonderful  and 
fair! 


DREAM  21 


Only  I  know  I  ailed  for  thee  and  that  thou  wert  not 

there. 
Then  suddenly  Time's  stalwart  wall  before  thee  did 

divide, 
Its  solid  bastions  dreamed  and  swayed  and  there  was 

I  inside. 

It  is  thy  nearness  makes  thee  seem  so  wonderful  and 

far. 
In  that  deep  sky  thou  art  obscured  as  in  the  noon,  a 

star. 
But  when  the  darkness  of  my  grief  swings  up  the 

mid-day  sky, 
My  need  begets  a  shining  world.  Lo,  in  thy  light  am  I. 

All  that  I  used  to  be  is  there  and  all  I  yet  shall  be. 
My  laughter  deepens  in  the  air,  my  quiet  in  the  tree. 
My  utter  tremblings  of  delight  are  manna  from  the  sky, 
And  shining  flower-like  in  the  grass  my  innocencies  lie. 

And  here  I  run  and  sleep  and  laugh  and  have  no  name 

at  all. 
Only  if  God  should  speak  to  me  then  I  would  heed 

the  call. 

And  I  forget  the  curious  ways,  the  alien  looks  of  men, 
For  even  as  it  was  of  old,  so  is  it  now  again. 

Still  every  angel  looks  the  same  and  all  the  folks  are 

there 

That  are  so  bounteous  and  mild  and  have  not  any  care. 
But  kindest  to  me  is  the  one  I  would  most  choose 

to  be. 
She  is  so  beautiful  and  sheds  such  loving  looks  on  me. 


FOUR  SONNETS 


She  is  so  beautiful  —  and  lays  her  cheek  against  my 

own. 
Back  —  in  the  world  —  they  all  will  say,  "How  happy 

you  have  grown." 
Her  breath  is  sweet  about  my  eyes  and  she  has  healed 

me  now, 
Though  I  be  scarred  with  grief,  I  keep  her  kiss  upon 

my  brow. 

All  day,  sweet  land,  I  fight  for  thee  outside  the  goodly 

wall, 
And  'twixt  my  breathless  wounds  I  have  no  sight  of 

thee  at  all! 
And  sometimes  I  forget  thy  looks  and  what  thy  ways 

may  be! 
I  have  denied  thou  wert  at  all  —  yet  still  I  fight  for 

thee. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


FOUR  SONNETS 
i 

SANCTUARY 

How  may  one  hold  these  days  of  wonderment 
And  bind  them  into  stillness  with  a  thong, 
Ere  as  a  fleeting  dream  they  pass  along 

Into  the  waste  of  lovely  things  forspent; 

How  may  one  keep  what  the  Great  Powers  have  sent, 
The  prayers  fulfilled  more  beautiful  and  strong 
Than  any  thought  could  fashion  into  song 

Of  all  the  rarest  harmonies  inblent? 


FOUR  SONNETS  23 

There  is  an  Altar  where  they  may  be  laid 

And  sealed  in  Faith  within  Its  sacred  care,  — 

Here  they  are  safe  unto  the  very  end; 
For  these  are  of  the  things  that  never  fade, 
Brought  from  the  City  that  is  built  four-square, 
The  gifts  of  Him  who  is  the  Perfect  Friend. 


THE  LAST  SPRING 

THE  first  glad  token  of  the  Spring  is  here 
That  bears  each  time  one  miracle  the  more, 
For  in  the  sunlight  is  the  golden  ore, 

The  joyous  promise  of  a  waking  year; 

And  in  that  promise  all  clouds  disappear 
And  youth  itself  comes  back  as  once  before, 
For  only  dreams  are  real  in  April's  store 

When  buds  are  bursting  and  the  skies  are  clear. 

Fair  Season!  at  your  touch  the  sleeping  land 
Quickens  to  rapture,  and  a  rosy  flame 

Is  the  old  signal  of  awakening; 
Thus  in  a  mystery  I  understand 
The  deepest  meaning  of  your  lovely  name  — 
How  it  will  be  in  that  perpetual  Spring! 

in 

THE  GARDEN 

BEHIND  the  pinions  of  the  Seraphim, 

Whose  wings  flame  out  upon  the  swinging  spheres, 
There  is  a  Voice  that  speaks  the  numbered  years 

Until  that  Day  when  all  comes  back  to  Him; 


24  FOUR  SONNETS 

Behind  the  faces  of  the  Cherubim, 

Whose  smiles  of  love  are  seen  through  broken  tears, 
There  is  a  Face  that  every  creature  fears, 

The  Face  of  Love  no  veil  may  ever  dim. 

O  Angels  of  Glad  Laughter  and  of  Song, 
Your  voices  sound  so  near,  the  little  wall 

Can  scarcely  hide  the  trees  that  bend  and  nod; 
Unbar  the  gate,  for  you  have  waited  long 

To  show  the  Garden  that  was  made  for  all,  — 
Where  all  is  safe  beneath  the  Smile  of  God. 


IV 

THE  PATH  OF  THE  STABS 

DOWN  through  the  spheres  that  chant  the  Name  of 

One 

Who  is  the  Law  of  Beauty  and  of  Light 
He  came,  and  as  He  came  the  waiting  Night 

Shook  with  the  gladness  of  a  Day  begun; 

And  as  He  came,  He  said :  Thy  Will  Be  Done 
On  Earth;  and  all  His  vibrant  Words  were  white 
And  glistering  with  silver,  and  their  might 

Was  of  the  glory  of  a  rising  sun. 

Unto  the  Stars  sang  out  His  Living  Words 

White  and  with  silver,  and  their  rhythmic  sound 

Was  as  a  mighty  symphony  unfurled; 

And  back  from  out  the  Stars  like  homing  birds 

They  fell  in  love  upon  the  sleeping  ground 

And  were  forever  in  a  wakened  world. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


CHANSON  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  OSENEY    25 

CHANSON  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  OSENfiY 

Thirteenth  Century 
THE  bells  of  Oseney 
(Hautclere,  Doucement,  Austyn) 
Chant  sweetly  every  day, 
And  sadly,  for  our  sin. 
The  bells  of  Oseney 
(John,  Gabriel,  Marie) 
Chant  lowly, 

Chant  slowly, 
Chant  wistfully  and  holy 
Of  Christ,  our  Paladin. 

Hautclere  chants  to  the  East 
(His  tongue  is  silvery  high), 
And  Austyn  like  a  priest 
Sends  west  a  weighty  cry. 
But  Doucement  set  between 
(Like  an  appeasive  nun) 
Chants  cheerly, 

Chants  clearly, 
As  if  Christ  heard  her  nearly, 
A  plea  to  every  sky. 

A  plea  that  John  takes  up 
(He  is  the  evangelist) 
Till  Gabriel's  angel  cup 
Pours  sound  to  sun  or  mist. 
And  last  of  all  Marie 
(The  virgin-voice  of  God) 
Peals  purely, 

Demurely, 

And  with  a  tone  so  surely 
Divine,  that  all  must  hear. 


26  ACCEPTANCE 


The  bells  of  Oseney 
(Doucement,  Austyn,  Hautclere) 
Pour  ever  day  by  day 
Their  peals  on  the  rapt  air; 
And  with  their  mellow  mates 
(John,  Gabriel,  Marie) 
Tell  slowly, 

Tell  lowly, 

Of  Christ  the  High  and  Holy, 
Who  makes  the  whole  world  fair. 

Cole  Young  Rice 

POETS 

VAIN  is  the  chiming  of  forgotten  bells 

That  the  wind  sways  above  a  ruined  shrine. 

Vainer  his  voice  in  whom  no  longer  dwells 

Hunger  that  craves  immortal  Bread  and  Wine. 

Light  songs  we  breathe  that  perish  with  our  breath 
Out  of  our  lips  that  have  not  kissed  the  rod. 

They  shall  not  live  who  have  not  tasted  death. 
They  only  sing  who  are  struck  dumb  by  God. 

Joyce  Kilmer 

ACCEPTANCE 
4> 

I  CANNOT  think  nor  reason, 
I  only  know  he  came 
With  hands  and  feet  of  healing 
And  wild  heart  all  aflame. 

With  eyes  that  dimmed  and  softened 
At  all  the  things  he  saw, 


OVERNIGHT,  A  ROSE  27 

And  in  his  pillared  singing 
I  read  the  marching  Law. 

I  only  know  he  loves  me, 
Enfolds  and  understands  — 
And  oh,  his  heart  that  holds  me, 
And  oh,  his  certain  hands! 

Willard  Wattles 

IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

BECAUSE  on  the  branch  that  is  tapping  my  pane 

A  sun-wakened  leaf-bud,  uncurled, 
Is  bursting  its  rusty  brown  sheathing  in  twain, 

I  know  there  is  Spring  hi  the  world. 

Because  through  the  sky-patch  whose  azure  and  white 

My  window  frames  all  the  day  long, 
A  yellow-bird  dips  for  an  instant  of  flight, 

I  know  there  is  Song. 

Because  even  here  in  this  Mansion  of  Woe 
Where  creep  the  dull  hours,  leaden-shod, 

Compassion  and  Tenderness  aid  me,  I  know 
There  is  God. 

Arthur  Guiterman 

OVERNIGHT,  A  ROSE 

THAT  overnight  a  rose  could  come 

I  one  time  did  believe, 
For  when  the  fairies  live  with  one, 

They  wilfully  deceive. 
But  now  I  know  this  perfect  thing 

Under  the  frozen  sod 


28  THE  IDOL-MAKER  PRAYS 

In  cold  and  storm  grew  patiently 

Obedient  to  God. 
My  wonder  grows,  since  knowledge  came 

Old  fancies  to  dismiss; 
And  courage  comes.  Was  not  the  rose 

A  winter  doing  this? 
Nor  did  it  know,  the  weary  while, 

What  color  and  perfume 
With  this  completed  loveliness 

Lay  in  that  earthly  tomb. 
So  maybe  I,  who  cannot  see 

What  God  wills  not  to  show, 
May,  some  day,  bear  a  rose  for  Him 

It  took  my  life  to  grow. 

Caroline  Giltinan 

THE  IDOL-MAKER  PRAYS 

GREAT  god  whom  I  shall  carve  from  this  gray  stone 

Wherein  thou  liest,  hid  to  all  but  me, 
Grant  thou  that  when  my  art  hath  made  thee  known 

And  others  bow,  I  shall  not  worship  thee. 
But,  as  I  pray  thee  now,  then  let  me  pray 

Some  greater  god,  —  like  thee  to  be  conceived 
Within  my  soul,  —  for  strength  to  turn  away 

From  his  new  altar,  when,  that  task  achieved, 
He,  too,  stands  manifest.  Yea,  let  me  yearn 

From  dream  to  grander  dream!  Let  me  not  rest 
Content  at  any  goal !  Still  bid  me  spurn 

Each  transient  triumph  on  the  Eternal  Quest, 
Abjuring  godlings  whom  my  hand  hath  made 
For  Deity,  revealed,  but  unportrayed! 

Arthur  Guiterman 


THE  BREAKING  29 


REVEILLE 

WHAT  sudden  bugle  calls  us  in  the  night 

And  wakes  us  from  a  dream  that  we  had  shaped; 

Flinging  us  sharply  up  against  a  fight 
We  thought  we  had  escaped. 

It  is  no  easy  waking,  and  we  win 
No  final  peace;  our  victories  are  few. 

But  still  imperative  forces  pull  us  in 
And  sweep  us  somehow  through. 

Summoned  by  a  supreme  and  confident  power 
That  wakes  our  sleeping  courage  like  a  blow, 

We  rise,  half-shaken,  to  the  challenging  hour, 
And  answer  it  —  and  go. 

Louis  Untermeyer 


THE  BREAKING 

(The  Lord  God  speaks  to  a  youth)  , 

BEND  now  thy  body  to  the  common  weight! 
(But  oh,  that  vine-clad  head,  those  limbs  of  morn! 
Those  proud  young  shoulders  I  myself  made  straight! 
How  shall  ye  wear  the  yoke  that  must  be  worn?) 

Look  thou,  my  son,  what  wisdom  comes  to  thee! 
(But  oh,  that  singing  mouth,  those  radiant  eyes! 
Those  dancing  feet  —  that  I  myself  made  free! 
How  shall  I  sadden  them  to  make  them  wise?) 


30  THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Nay  then,  thou  shalt!  Resist  not,  have  a  care! 
(Yea,  I  must  work  my  plans  who  sovereign  sit! 
Yet  do  not  tremble  so !  I  cannot  bear  — 
Though  I  am  God  —  to  see  thee  so  submit!) 

Margaret  Steele  Anderson 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

I  FLUNG  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying. 
I  said,  "Wait  on,  wait  on,  while  I  ride  below! 

I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 

In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon  — 
A  strange  white  heron  rising  with  silver  on  its  wings, 
Rising  and  crying 

Wordless,  wondrous  things; 
The  secret  of  the  stars,  of  the  world's  heart-strings, 

The  answer  to  their  woe. 
Then  stoop  thou  upon  him,  and  grip  and  hold  him 

so!" 

My  wild  soul  waited  on  as  falcons  hover. 
I  beat  the  reedy  fens  as  I  trampled  past. 
I  heard  the  mournful  loon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon. 
And  then  —  with  feathery  thunder  —  the  bird  of  my 
desire 

Broke  from  the  cover 
Flashing  silver  fire. 
High  up  among  the  stars  I  saw  his  pinions  spire. 

The  pale  clouds  gazed  aghast 

As  my  falcon  stoopt  upon  him,  and  gript  and  held 
him  fast. 


DILEMMA  31 


My  soul  dropt  through  the  air  —  with  heavenly  plun 
der?— 

Gripping  the  dazzling  bird  my  dreaming  knew? 
Nay !  but  a  piteous  freight, 
A  dark  and  heavy  weight 

Despoiled  of  silver  plumage,  its  voice  forever  stilled,  — 

All  of  the  wonder 
Gone  that  ever  filled 

Its  guise  with  glory.  Oh,  bird  that  I  have  killed, 
How  brilliantly  you  flew 

Across  my  rapturous  vision  when  first  I  dreamed  of 
you! 

«* 

Yet  I  fling  my  soul  on  high  with  new  endeavor, 
And  I  ride  the  world  below  with  a  joyful  mind. 
/  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon  — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges  I 

I  beat  forever 
The  fens  and  the  sedges. 

The  pledge  is  still  the  same  —  for  all  disastrous 
pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned ! 

My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find. 

Wm.  Rose  Benet 


DILEMMA 

WHAT  though  the  moon  should  come 

With  a  blinding  glow, 
And  the  stars  have  a  game 

On  the  wood's  edge, 


32         TO  A  PORTRAIT  OF  WHISTLER 

A  man  would  have  to  still 

Cut  and  weed  and  sow, 
And  lay  a  white  line 

When  he  plants  a  hedge. 

What  though  God 

With  a  great  sound  of  rain 
Came  to  talk  of  violets 

And  things  people  do, 
I  would  have  to  labor 

And  dig  with  my  brain 
Still  to  get  a  truth 

Out  of  all  words  new. 

Orrick  Johns 


TO  A  PORTRAIT  OF  WHISTLER  IN  THE 
BROOKLYN  ART  MUSEUM 

WHAT  waspish  whim  of  Fate 
Was  this  that  bade  you  here 

Hold  dim,  unhonored  state, 
No  single  courtier  near? 

Is  there,  of  all  who  pass, 
No  choice,  discerning  few 

To  poise  the  ribboned  glass 
And  gaze  enwrapt  on  you? 

Sword-soul  that  from  its  sheath 
Laughed  leaping  to  the  fray, 

How  calmly  underneath 
Goes  Brooklyn  on  her  way! 


FLAMMONDE  33 


Quite  heedless  of  that  smile  — 

Half-devil  and  half-god, 
Your  quite  unequalled  style, 

The  airy  heights  you  trod. 

Ah,  could  you  from  earth's  breast 
Come  back  to  take  the  air, 

What  matter  here  for  jest 
Most  exquisite  and  rare! 

But  since  you  may  not  come, 
Since  silence  holds  you  fast, 

Since  all  your  quips  are  dumb 
And  all  your  laughter  past  — 

I  give  you  mine  instead, 
And  something  with  it  too 

That  Brooklyn  leaves  unsaid  — 
The  world's  fine  homage  due. 

Ah,  Prince,  you  smile  again  — 
"My  faith,  the  court  is  small!" 

I  know,  dear  James  —  but  then 
It's  I  or  none  at  all! 

Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

FLAMMONDE1 

THE  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 

With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, 

With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 

And  something  royal  in  his  walk, 

With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 

But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise, 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Man  against  the 
Sky,  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Macmillan 
Company. 


34  FLAMMONDE 


Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothes, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Or  what  mischance,  or  other  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
A  part,  for  most,  unplayable; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no; 
Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 


FLAMMONDE  35 


His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 

There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  fringe, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
And  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at  — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress, 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 

Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 

Of  learning.  We  could  understand, 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 

There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right,  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 

And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 
Of  many  out  of  many  more. 


36  FLAMMONDE 


So  much  for  them.  But  what  of  him  — 
So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb? 
What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 
Was  hi  his  brain?  What  broken  link 
Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 
That  came  so  near  to  being  his? 

What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise? 
Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know;  nor  yet 
Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone; 
Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest: 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


'     THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE          37 

THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE1 

"How,  how,"  he  said.  "Friend  Chang,"  I  said, 
"San  Francisco  sleeps  as  the  dead  — 
Ended  license,  lust  and  play : 
Why  do  you  iron  the  night  away? 
Your  big  clock  speaks  with  a  deadly  sound, 
With  a  tick  and  a  wail  till  dawn  comes  round. 
While  the  monster  shadows  glower  and  creep, 
What  can  be  better  for  man  than  sleep?" 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  Chang  replied; 

"My  breast  with  vision  is  satisfied, 

And  I  see  green  trees  and  fluttering  wings, 

And  my  deathless  bird  from  Shanghai  sings." 

Then  he  lit  five  fire-crackers  in  a  pan. 

"Pop,  pop,"  said  the  fire-crackers,  "cra-cra-crack." 

He  lit  a  joss  stick  long  and  black. 

Then  the  proud  gray  joss  in  the  corner  stirred; 

On  his  wrist  appeared  a  gray  small  bird, 

And  this  was  the  song  of  the  gray  small  bird : 

"Where  is  the  princess,  loved  forever, 

Who  made  Chang  first  of  the  kings  of  men?" 

And  the  joss  in  the  corner  stirred  again; 

And  the  carved  dog,  curled  in  his  arms,  awoke, 

Barked  forth  a  smoke-cloud  that  whirled  and  broke. 

It  piled  in  a  maze  round  the  ironing-place, 

And  there  on  the  snowy  table  wide 

Stood  a  Chinese  lady  of  high  degree, 

With  a  scornful,  witching,  tea-rose  face  .  .  . 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Chinese  Night 
ingale,  and  Other  Poems,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Copyright,  1917,  by  The 
Macmillan  Company. 


38          THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Yet  she  put  away  all  form  and  pride, 

And  laid  her  glimmering  veil  aside 

With  a  childlike  smile  for  Chang  and  for  me. 

The  walls  fell  back,  night  was  aflower, 

The  table  gleamed  in  a  moonlit  bower, 

While  Chang,  with  a  countenance  carved  of  stone, 

Ironed  and  ironed,  all  alone. 

And  thus  she  sang  to  the  busy  man  Chang : 

"Have  you  forgotten  .  .  . 

Deep  in  the  ages,  long,  long  ago, 

I  was  your  sweetheart,  there  on  the  sand  — 

Storm-worn  beach  of  the  Chinese  land? 

We  sold  our  grain  in  the  peacock  town 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  — 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  .  .  . 

When  all  the  world  was  drinking  blood 
From  the  skulls  of  men  and  bulls 
And  all  the  world  had  swords  and  clubs  of  stone, 
We  drank  our  tea  in  China  beneath  the  sacred  spice- 
trees, 

And  heard  the  curled  waves  of  the  harbor  moan. 
And  this  gray  bird,  in  Love's  first  spring, 
With  a  bright-bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 
Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 
Do  you  remember,  ages  after, 
At  last  the  world  we  were  born  to  own? 
You  were  the  heir  of  the  yellow  throne  — 
The  world  was  the  field  of  the  Chinese  man 
And  we  were  the  pride  of  the  Sons  of  Han? 
We  copied  deep  books  and  we  carved  in  jade, 
And  wove  blue  silks  in  the  mulberry  shade  .  .  ." 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE          39 

"I  remember,  I  remember 
That  Spring  came  on  forever, 
That  Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  marvel  and  dream, 
Though  I  saw  the  western  street-lamps  gleam, 
Though  dawn  was  bringing  the  western  day, 
Though  Chang  was  a  laundryman  ironing^  away  .  .  . 
Mingled  there  with  the  streets  and  alleys, 
The  railroad-yard  and  the  clock-tower  bright, 
Demon  clouds  crossed  ancient  valleys; 
Across  wide  lotus-ponds  of  light 
I  marked  a  giant  firefly's  flight. 

And  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Flourished  her  fan,  her  shimmering  fan, 

Stretched  her  hand  toward  Chang,  and  said: 

"Do  you  remember, 

Ages  after, 

Our  palace  of  heart-red  stone? 

Do  you  remember 

The  little  doll-faced  children 

With  their  lanterns  full  of  moon-fire, 

That  came  from  all  the  empire 

Honoring  the  throne?  — 

The  loveliest  f£te  and  carnival 

Our  world  had  ever  known? 

The  sages  sat  about  us 

With  their  heads  bowed  in  their  beards, 

With  proper  meditation  on  the  sight. 

Confucius  was  not  born; 

We  lived  in  those  great  days 


40          THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Confucius  later  said  were  lived  aright .  .  . 
And  this  gray  bird,  on  that  day  of  spring, 
With  a  bright-bronze  breast,  and  a  bronze-brown 

wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 
Late  at  night  his  tune  was  spent. 
Peasants, 


Children, 

Homeward  went, 

And  then  the  bronze  bird  sang  for  you  and  me. 

We  walked  alone.  Our  hearts  were  high  and  free. 

I  had  a  silvery  name,  I  had  a  silvery  name, 

I  had  a  silvery  name  —  do  you  remember 

The  name  you  cried  beside  the  tumbling  sea?" 

Chang  turned  not  to  the  lady  slim  — 

He  bent  to  his  work,  ironing  away; 

But  she  was  arch,  and  knowing  and  glowing, 

And  the  bird  on  his  shoulder  spoke  for  him. 

"Darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  ..." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

The  great  gray  joss  on  a  rustic  shelf, 

Rakish  and  shrewd,  with  his  collar  awry, 

Sang  impolitely,  as  though  by  himself, 

Drowning  with  his  bellowing  the  nightingale's  cry: 

"Back  through  a  hundred,  hundred  years 

Hear  the  waves  as  they  climb  the  piers, 

Hear  the  howl  of  the  silver  seas, 

Hear  the  thunder. 

Hear  the  gongs  of  holy  China 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE          41 

How  the  waves  and  tunes  combine 

In  a  rhythmic  clashing  wonder, 

Incantation  old  and  fine: 

'Dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons, 
Red  fire-crackers,  and  green  fire-crackers, 
And  dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons.'  " 

Then  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Turned  to  her  lover  Chang  and  said : 

"Dare  you  forget  that  turquoise  dawn, 

When  we  stood  in  our  mist-hung  velvet  lawn, 

And  worked  a  spell  this  great  joss  taught 

Till  a  God  of  the  Dragons  was  charmed  and  caught? 

From  the  flag  high  over  our  palace  home 

He  flew  to  our  feet  in  rainbow-foam  — 

A  king  of  beauty  and  tempest  and  thunder 

Panting  to  tear  our  sorrows  asunder: 

A  dragon  of  fair  adventure  and  wonder. 

We  mounted  the  back  of  that  royal  slave 

With  thoughts  of  desire  that  were  noble  and  grave. 

We  swam  down  the  shore  to  the  dragon-mountains, 

We  whirled  to  the  peaks  and  the  fiery  fountains. 

To  our  secret  ivory  house  we  were  borne. 

We  looked  down  the  wonderful  wing-filled  regions 

Where  the  dragons  darted  in  glimmering  legions. 

Right  by  my  breast  the  nightingale  sang; 

The  old  rhymes  rang  in  the  sunlit  mist 

That  we  this  hour  regain  — 

Song-fire  for  the  brain. 

When  my  hands  and  my  hair  and  my  feet  you  kissed, 

When  you  cried  for  your  heart's  new  pain, 

What  was  my  name  in  the  dragon-mist, 

In  the  rings  of  rainbowed  rain?" 


42          THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love,'* 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

And  now  the  joss  broke  in  with  his  song: 

"Dying  ember,  bird  of  Chang, 

Soul  of  Chang,  do  you  remember?  — 

Ere  you  returned  to  the  shining  harbor 

There  were  pirates  by  ten  thousand 

Descended  on  the  town 

In  vessels  mountain-high  and  red  and  brown, 

Moon-ships  that  climbed  the  storms  and  cut  the 

skies. 

On  their  prows  were  painted  terrible  bright  eyes. 
But  I  was  then  a  wizard  and  a  scholar  and  a 

priest; 

I  stood  upon  the  sand; 
With  lifted  hand  I  looked  upon  them 
And  sunk  their  vessels  with  my  wizard  eyes, 
And  the  stately  lacquer-gate  made  safe  again. 
Deep,  deep  below  the  bay,  the  sea-weed  and  the 

spray, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies, 
Embalmed  hi  amber  every  pirate  lies." 

Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say : 

"Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 

When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 

From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 

And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path  — 

The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath: 

And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE          43 

And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so? 

There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 

And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 

There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river. 

And  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks: 

There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 

And  silver  lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 

And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the 

town 

By  the  black-lacquer  gate 
Where  walked  in  state 
The  kind  king  Chang 
And  his  sweetheart  mate  .  .  . 
With  his  flag-born  dragon 
And  his  crown  of  pearl  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  jade, 
And  his  nightingale  reigning  in  the  mulberry 

shade, 

And  sailors  and  soldiers  on  the  sea-sands  brown, 
And  priests  who  bowed  them  down  to  your  song  — 
By  the  city  called  Han,  the  peacock  town, 
By  the  city  called  Han,  the  nightingale  town, 
The  nightingale  town." 

Then  sang  the  bird,  so  strangely  gay, 
Fluttering,  fluttering,  ghostly  and  gray, 
A  vague,  unravelling,  final  tune, 
Like  a  long  unwinding  silk  cocoon; 
Sang  as  though  for  the  soul  of  him 
Who  ironed  away  in  that  bower  dim :  — 

"I  have  forgotten 

Your  dragons  great, 

Merry  and  mad  and  friendly  and  bold. 

Dim  is  your  proud  lost  palace-gate. 


44  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

I  vaguely  know 

There  were  heroes  of  old, 

Troubles  more  than  the  heart  could  hold, 

There  were  wolves  in  the  woods 

Yet  lambs  in  the  fold, 

Nests  in  the  top  of  the  almond  tree  .  .  . 

The  evergreen  tree  .  .  .  and  the  mulberry 

tree  .  .  . 

Life  and  hurry  and  joy  forgotten, 
Years  on  years  I  but  half -remember  .  .  . 
Man  is  a  torch,  then  ashes  soon, 
May  and  June,  then  dead  December, 
Dead  December,  then  again  June. 
Who  shall  end  my  dream's  confusion? 
Life  is  a  loom,  weaving  illusion  .  .  ; 
I  remember,  I  remember 
There  were  ghostly  veils  and  laces  .  .  . 
In  the  shadowy  bowery  places  .  .  . 
With  lovers'  ardent  faces 
Bending  to  one  another, 
Speaking  each  his  part. 
They  infinitely  echo 
In  the  red  cave  of  my  heart. 
'Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,' 
They  said  to  one  another. 
They  spoke,  I  think,  of  perils  past. 
They  spoke,  I  think,  of  peace  at  last. 
One  thing  I  remember: 
Spring  came  on  forever, 
Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

Vachel  Lindsay 


LOVE  SONGS  45 


LOVE  SONGS 

COME1 

COME,  when  the  pale  moon  like  a  petal 
Floats  in  the  pearly  dusk  of  Spring, 

Come  with  arms  outstretched  to  take  me, 
Come  with  lips  that  long  to  cling. 

Come,  for  life  is  a  frail  moth  flying, 

Caught  in  the  web  of  the  years  that  pass, 

And  soon  we  two,  so  warm  and  eager, 
Will  be  as  the  gray  stones  in  the  grass. 

MESSAGE  l 

I  HEARD  a  cry  in  the  night, 

A  thousand  miles  it  came, 
Sharp  as  a  flash  of  light, 

My  name,  my  name! 

It  was  your  voice  I  heard, 

You  waked  and  loved  me  so  — 

I  send  you  back  this  word, 
I  know,  I  know! 

MOODS l 

I  AM  the  still  rain  falling, 

Too  tired  for  singing  mirth  — 

Oh,  be  the  green  fields  calling, 
Oh,  be  for  me  the  earth! 

*  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Love  Songs,  by  Sara 
Teaadale.    Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


46  LOVE  SONGS 


. 


I  am  the  brown  bird  pining 
To  leave  the  nest  and  fly  — 

Oh,  be  the  fresh  cloud  shining, 
Oh,  be  for  me  the  sky! 

NIGHT  SONG  AT  AMALFI 1 

I  ASKED  the  heaven  of  stars 
What  I  should  give  my  love  — 

It  answered  me  with  silence, 
Silence  above. 

I  asked  the  darkened  sea 

Down  where  the  fishers  go  — 

It  answered  me  with  silence, 
Silence  below. 

Oh,  I  could  give  him  weeping, 
Or  I  could  give  him  song  — 

But  how  can  I  give  silence 
My  whole  life  long? 


SONG 

LET  it  be  forgotten  as  a  flower  is  forgotten, 
Forgotten  as  a  fire  that  once  was  singing  gold, 

Let  it  be  forgotten  forever  and  ever, 

Time  is  a  kind  friend,  he  will  make  us  old. 

If  any  one  asks,  say  it  was  forgotten 

Long  and  long  ago, 
As  a  flower,  as  a  fire,  as  a  hushed  footfall 

In  a  long  forgotten  snow. 

Sara  Teasdale 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Love  Songt,  by  Sara 
Teasdale.    Copyright,  1917,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 


LOVE  IS  A  TERRIBLE  THING  47 


LOVE  IS  A  TERRIBLE  THING 

I  WENT  out  to  the  farthest  meadow, 
I  lay  down  in  the  deepest  shadow; 


And  I  said  unto  the  earth,  "Hold  me," 
And  unto  the  night,  "O  enfold  me," 

| 

And  unto  the  wind  petulantly 

I  cried,  "You  know  not  for  you  are  free!" 

And  I  begged  the  little  leaves  to  lean 
Low  and  together  for  a  safe  screen; 

Then  to  the  stars  I  told  my  tale : 

"That  is  my  home-light,  there  in  the  vale, 

"And  0,  I  know  that  I  shall  return, 

But  let  me  lie  first  mid  the  unfeeling  fern. 

"For  there  is  a  flame  that  has  blown  too  near, 
And  there  is  a  name  that  has  grown  too  dear, 
And  there  is  a  fear  ..." 

And  to  the  still  hills  and  cool  earth  and  far 

sky  I  made  moan, 
"The  heart  in  my  bosom  is  not  my  own! 

"0  would  I  were  free  as  the  wind  on  wing; 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing!" 

Grace  Fallow  Norton 


48  SPRING  IN  CARMEL 

VALLEY  SONG 

YOUR  eyes  and  the  valley  are  memories. 

Your  eyes  fire  and  the  valley  a  bowl. 

It  was  here  a  moonrise  crept  over  the  timberline. 

It  was  here  we  turned  the  coffee  cups  upside  down. 

And  your  eyes  and  the  moon  swept  the  valley. 

I  will  see  you  again  to-morrow. 

I  will  see  you  again  in  a  million  years. 

I  will  never  know  your  dark  eyes  again. 

These  are  three  ghosts  I  keep. 

These  are  three  sumach-red  dogs  I  run  with. 

All  of  it  wraps  and  knots  to  a  riddle : 

I  have  the  moon,  the  timberline,  and  you. 

All  three  are  gone  —  and  I  keep  all  three. 

Carl  Sandburg 

SPRING  IN  CARMEL 

O'ER  Carmel  fields  in  the  springtime  the  sea-gulls 

follow  the  plow. 

White,  white  wings  on  the  blue  above ! 
White  were  your  brow  and  breast,  O  Love ! 

But  I  cannot  see  you  now. 
Tireless  ever  the  Mission  swallow 
Dips  to  meadow  and  poppied  hollow; 
Well  for  her  mate  that  he  can  follow, 
As  the  buds  are  on  the  bough. 

By  the  woods  and  waters  of  Carmel  the  lark  is  glad 

in  the  sun. 
Harrow!  Harrow!  Music  of  God! 


SPRING  IN  CARMEL  49 

Near  to  your  nest  her  feet  have  trod 

Whose  journeyings  are  done. 
Sing,  O  lover!  I  cannot  sing. 
Wild  and  sad  are  the  thoughts  you  bring. 
Well  for  you  are  the  skies  of  spring, 

And  to  me  all  skies  are  one. 

In  the  beautiful  woods  of  Carmel  an  iris  bends 

to  the  wind. 

O  thou  far-off  and  sorrowful  flower! 
Rose  that  I  found  in  a  tragic  hour! 

Rose  that  I  shall  not  find! 
Petals  that  fell  so  soft  and  slowly, 
Fragrant  snows  on  the  grasses  lowly, 
Gathered  now  would  I  call  you  holy 
Ever  to  eyes  once  blind. 

In  the  pine-sweet  valley  of  Carmel  the  cream- 
cups  scatter  in  foam. 
Azures  of  early  lupin  there! 
Now  the  wild  lilac  floods  the  air 

Like  a  broken  honey-comb. 
So  could  the  flowers  of  Paradise 
Pour  their  souls  to  the  morning  skies; 
So  like  a  ghost  your  fragrance  lies 
On  the  path  that  once  led  home. 

On  the  emerald  hills  of  Carmel  the  spring  and 

winter  have  met. 
Here  I  find  in  a  gentled  spot 
The  frost  of  the  wild  forget-me-not* 
And  —  I  cannot  forget. 


50  MUSIC  I  HEARD 

Heart  once  light  as  the  floating  feather 
Borne  aloft  in  the  sunny  weather, 
Spring  and  winter  have  come  together  — 
Shall  you  and  she  meet  yet? 

On  the  rocks  and  beaches  of  Carmel  the  surf  is 

mighty  to-day. 
Breaker  and  lifting  billow  call 
To  the  high,  blue  Silence  over  all 

With  the  word  no  heart  can  say. 
Time-to-be,  shall  I  hear  it  ever? 
Time-that-is,  with  the  hands  that  sever, 
Cry  all  words  but  the  dreadful  "Never"! 
And  name  of  her  far  away. 

George  Sterling 

MUSIC  I  HEARD 

Music  I  heard  with  you  was  more  than  music, 
And  bread  I  broke  with  you  was  more  than  bread; 
Now  that  I  am  without  you,  all  is  desolate; 
All  that  was  once  so  beautiful  is  dead. 

Your  hands  once  touched  this  table  and  this  silver, 
And  I  have  seen  your  fingers  hold  this  glass. 
These  things  do  not  remember  you,  beloved,  — 
And  yet  your  touch  upon  them  will  not  pass. 

For  it  was  in  my  heart  you  moved  among  them, 
And  blessed  them  with  your  hands  and  with  your  eyes; 
And  in  my  heart  they  will  remember  always,  — 
They  knew  you  once,  O  beautiful  and  wise. 

Conrad  Aiken 


OLD  SHIPS  51 


DUSK  AT  SEA 

TO-NIGHT  eternity  alone  is  near: 

The  sea,  the  sunset,  and  the  darkening  blue; 
Within  their  shelter  is  no  space  for  fear, 

Only  the  wonder  that  such  things  are  true. 

The  thought  of  you  is  like  the  dusk  at  sea  — 
Space  and  wide  freedom  and  old  shores  left  far, 

The  shelter  of  a  lone  immensity 

Sealed  by  the  sunset  and  the  evening  star. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


OLD  SHIPS 

THERE  is  a  memory  stays  upon  old  ships, 

A  weightless  cargo  in  the  musty  hold,  — 
Of  bright  lagoons  and  prow-caressing  lips, 

Of  stormy  midnights,  —  and  a  tale  untold. 
They  have  remembered  islands  in  the  dawn, 

And  windy  capes  that  tried  their  slender  spars, 
And  tortuous  channels  where  their  keels  have  gone, 

And  calm  blue  nights  of  stillness  and  the  stars. 

Ah,  never  think  that  ships  forget  a  shore, 

Or  bitter  seas,  or  winds  that  made  them  wise; 

There  is  a  dream  upon  them,  evermore;  — 

And  there  be  some  who  say  that  sunk  ships  rise 

To  seek  familiar  harbors  in  the  night, 
Blowing  in  mists,  their  spectral  sails  like  light. 

David  Morton 


52  HARBURY 


THE  WANDERER 

THE  ships  are  lying  in  the  bay, 

The  gulls  are  swinging  round  their  spars; 
My  soul  as  eagerly  as  they 

Desires  the  margin  of  the  stars. 

So  much  do  I  love  wandering, 
So  much  I  love  the  sea  and  sky, 

That  it  will  be  a  piteous  thing 
In  one  small  grave  to  lie. 

Zoe  Akins 


HARBURY 

ALL  the  men  of  Harbury  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships, 
The  wind  upon  their  faces,  the  salt  upon  their  lips. 

The  little  boys  of  Harbury  when  they  are  laid  to 

sleep, 
Dream  of  masts  and  cabins  and  the  wonders  of  the 

deep. 

The  women-folk  of  Harbury  have  eyes  like  the  sea, 
Wide  with  watching  wonder,  deep  with  mystery. 

I  met  a  woman:  "Beyond  the  bar,"  she  said, 
"Beyond  the  shallow  water  where  the  green  lines 
spread, 

"Out  beyond  the  sand-bar  and  the  white  spray, 
My  three  sons  wait  for  the  Judgment  Day." 


HARBURY  53 


I  saw  an  old  man  who  goes  to  sea  no  more, 
Watch  from  morn  till  evening  down  on  the  shore. 

"The  sea's  a  hard  mistress,"  the  old  man  said; 
"The  sea  is  always  hungry  and  never  full  fed. 

"The  sea  had  my  father  and  took  my  son  from  me  — 
Sometimes  I  think  I  see  them,  walking  on  the  sea! 

"I'd  like  to  be  in  Harbury  on  the  Judgment  Day, 
When  the  word  is  spoken  and  the  sea  is  wiped  away, 

"And  all  the  drowned  fisher  boys,  with  sea-weed  in 

their  hair, 
Rise  and  walk  to  Harbury  to  greet  the  women  there. 

"I'd  like  to  be  in  Harbury  to  see  the  souls  arise, 
Son  and  mother  hand  in  hand,  lovers  with  glad  eyes. 

"I  think  there  would  be  many  who  would  turn  and 

look  with  me, 
Hoping  for  another  glimpse  of  the  cruel  sea! 

"They  tell  me  that  in  Paradise  the  fields  are  green  and 

still, 
With  pleasant  flowers  everywhere  that  all  may  take 

who  will, 

"And  four  great  rivers  flowing  from  out  the  Throne 
of  God 

That  no  one  ever  drowns  in  and  souls  may  cross  dry- 
shod. 

\ 


54  A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW 

"I  think  among  those  wonders  there  will  be  men  like 

me, 
Who  miss  the  old  salt  danger  of  the  singing  sea. 

"For  in  my  heart,  like  some  old  shell,  inland,  safe  and 

dry, 
Any  one  who  harks  will  still  hear  the  sea  cry." 

Louise  Driscoll 


A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW 

HE  was  straight  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  were  blue 
As  the  summer  meeting  of  sky  and  sea, 
And  the  ruddy  cliffs  had  a  colder  hue 
Than  flushed  his  cheek  when  he  married  me. 

We  passed  the  porch  where  the  swallows  breed, 
We  left  the  little  brown  church  behind, 
And  I  leaned  on  his  arm,  though  I  had  no  need, 
Only  to  feel  him  so  strong  and  kind. 

One  thing  I  never  can  quite  forget; 

It  grips  my  throat  when  I  try  to  pray  — 

The  keen  salt  smell  of  a  drying  net 

That  hung  on  the  churchyard  wall  that  day. 

He  would  have  taken  a  long,  long  grave  — 
A  long,  long  grave,  for  he  stood  so  tall  .  .  . 
Oh,  God,  the  crash  of  a  breaking  wave, 
And  the  smell  of  the  nets  on  the  churchyard  wall! 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


CITY  ROOFS  55 


CITY  ROOFS 

ROOF-TOPS,  roof-tops,  what  do  you  cover? 
Sad  folk,  bad  folk,  and  many  a  glowing  lover; 
Wise  people,  simple  people,  children  of  despair  — 
Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  hiding  pain  and  care. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  O  what  sin  you're  knowing, 
While  above  you  in  the  sky  the  white  clouds  are 

blowing; 

While  beneath  you,  agony  and  dolor  and  grim  strife 
Fight  the  olden  battle,  the  olden  war  of  Life. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  cover  up  their  shame  — 
Wretched  souls,  prisoned  souls  too  piteous  to  name; 
Man  himself  hath  built  you  all  to  hide  away  the 

stars  — 
Roof-tops  roof-tops,  you  hide  ten  million  scars. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  well  I  know  you  cover 
Many  solemn  tragedies  and  many  a  lonely  lover; 
But  ah,  you  hide  the  good  that  lives  in  the  throbbing 

city  — 
Patient  wives,  and  tenderness,  forgiveness,  faith,  and 

pity. 

Roof-tops,  roof -tops,  this  is  what  I  wonder: 

You  are  thick  as  poisonous  plants,  thick  the  people 

under; 

Yet  roofless,  and  homeless,  and  shelterless  they  roam, 
The  driftwood  of  the  town  who  have  no  roof-top  and 

no  home! 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 


56  EYE-WITNESS 


EYE-WITNESS 

DOWN  by  the  railroad  in  a  green  valley 
By  dancing  water,  there  he  stayed  awhile 
Singing,  and  three  men  with  him,  listeners, 
All  tramps,  all  homeless  reapers  of  the  wind, 
Motionless  now  and  while  the  song  went  on 
Transfigured  into  mages  thronged  with  visions; 
There  with  the  late  light  of  the  sunset  on  them 
And  on  clear  water  spinning  from  a  spring 
Through  little  cones  of  sand  dancing  and  fading, 
Close  beside  pine  woods  where  a  hermit  thrush 
Cast,  when  love  dazzled  him,  shadows  of  music 
That  lengthened,  fluting,  through  the  singer's  pauses 
While  the  sure  earth  rolled  eastward  bringing  stars 
Over  the  singer  and  the  men  that  listened 
There  by  the  roadside,  understanding  all. 

A  train  went  by  but  nothing  seemed  to  be  changed. 
Some  eye  at  a  car  window  must  have  flashed 
From  the  plush  world  inside  the  glassy  Pullman, 
Carelessly  bearing  off  the  scene  forever, 
With  idle  wonder  what  the  men  were  doing, 
Seeing  they  were  so  strangely  fixed  and  seeing 
Torn  papers  from  their  smeary  dreary  meal 
Spread  on  the  ground  with  old  tomato  cans 
Muddy  with  dregs  of  lukewarm  chicory, 
Neglected  while  they  listened  to  the  song. 
And  while  he  sang  the  singer's  face  was  lifted, 
And  the  sky  shook  down  a  soft  light  upon  him 
Out  of  its  branches  where  like  fruits  there  were 
Many  beautiful  stars  and  planets  moving, 
With  lands  upon  them,  rising  from  their  seas, 


EYE-WITNESS  57 


Glorious  lands  with  glittering  sands  upon  them, 
With  soils  of  gold  and  magic  mould  for  seeding, 
The  shining  loam  of  lands  afoam  with  gardens 
On  mightier  stars  with  giant  rains  and  suns 
There  in  the  heavens;  but  on  none  of  all 
Was  there  ground  better  than  he  stood  upon: 
There  was  no  world  there  in  the  sky  above  him 
Deeper  in  promise  than  the  earth  beneath  him 
Whose  dust  had  flowered  up  in  him  the  singer 
And  three  men  understanding  every  word. 

The  Tramp  Sings: 

I  will  sing,  I  will  go,  and  never  ask  me  "Why?" 
I  was  born  a  rover  and  a  passer-by. 

I  seem  to  myself  like  water  and  sky, 
A  river  and  a  rover  and  a  passer-by. 

But  in  the  winter  three  years  back 
We  lit  us  a  night  fire  by  the  track, 

And  the  snow  came  up  and  the  fire,  it  flew 

And  we  could  n't  find  the  warming  room  for  two. 

One  had  to  suffer,  so  I  left  him  the  fire 

And  I  went  to  the  weather  from  my  heart's  desire. 

It  was  night  on  the  line,  it  was  no  more  fire, 
But  the  zero  whistle  through  the  icy  wire. 

As  I  went  suffering  through  the  snow 
Something  like  a  shadow  came  moving  slow. 


58  EYE-WITNESS 


I  went  up  to  it  and  I  said  a  word; 
Something  flew  above  it  like  a  kind  of  bird. 

I  leaned  in  closer  and  I  saw  a  face; 

A  light  went  round  me  but  I  kept  my  place. 

My  heart  went  open  like  an  apple  sliced; 
I  saw  my  Saviour  and  I  saw  my  Christ. 

Well,  you  may  not  read  it  in  a  book, 

But  it  takes  a  gentle  Saviour  to  give  a  gentle  look. 

I  looked  in  his  eyes  and  I  read  the  news; 
His  heart  was  having  the  railroad  blues. 

Oh,  the  railroad  blues  will  cost  you  dear, 
Keeps  you  moving  on  for  something  that  you 
don't  see  here. 

We  stood  and  whispered  in  a  kind  of  moon; 
The  line  was  looking  like  May  and  June. 

I  found  he  was  a  roamer  and  a  journey  man 
Looking  for  a  lodging  since  the  night  began. 

He  went  to  the  doors  but  he  did  n't  have  the  pay. 
He  went  to  the  windows,  then  he  went  away. 

Says,  "We'll  walk  together  and  we'll  both  be  fed." 
Says,  "I  will  give  you  the  'other'  bread." 

Oh,  the  bread  he  gave  and  without  money! 
O  drink,  O  fire,  O  burning  honey ! 


EYE-WITNESS  59 


It  went  all  through  me  like  a  shining  storm: 
I  saw  inside  me,  it  was  light  and  warm. 

I  saw  deep  under  and  I  saw  above, 

I  saw  the  stars  weighed  down  with  love. 

They  sang  that  love  to  burning  birth, 
They  poured  that  music  to  the  earth. 

I  heard  the  stars  sing  low  like  mothers. 

He  said:   "Now  look,  and  help  feed  others." 

I  looked  around,  and  as  close  as  touch 
Was  everybody  that  suffered  much. 

They  reached  out,  there  was  darkness  only; 
They  could  not  see  us,  they  were  lonely. 

I  saw  the  hearts  that  deaths  took  hold  of, 
With  the  wounds  bare  that  were  not  told  of; 

Hearts  with  things  in  them  making  gashes; 
Hearts  that  were  choked  with  their  dreams'  ashes; 

Women  in  front  of  the  rolled-back  air, 
Looking  at  their  breasts  and  nothing  there; 

Good  men  wasting  and  trapped  in  hells; 
Hurt  lads  shivering  with  the  fare-thee- wells. 

I  saw  them  as  if  something  bound  them; 

I  stood  there  but  my  heart  went  round  them. 


EYE-WITNESS 


I  begged  him  not  to  let  me  see  them  wasted. 
Says,  "Tell  them  then  what  you  have  tasted." 

Told  him  I  was  weak  as  a  rained-on  bee; 
Told  him  I  was  lost.  —  Says:  "Lean  on  me." 

Something  happened  then  I  could  not  tell, 
But  I  knew  I  had  the  water  for  every  hell. 

Any  other  thing  it  was  no  use  bringing; 
They  needed  what  the  stars  were  singing, 

What  the  whole  sky  sang  like  waves  of  light, 
The  tune  that  it  danced  to,  day  and  night. 

Oh,  I  listened  to  the  sky  for  the  tune  to  come; 
The  song  seemed  easy,  but  I  stood  there  dumb. 

The  stars  could  feel  me  reaching  through  them 
They  let  down  light  and  drew  me  to  them. 

I  stood  in  the  sky  in  a  light  like  day, 
Drinking  in  the  word  that  all  things  say 

Where  the  worlds  hang  growing  in  clustered  shapes 
Dripping  the  music  like  wine  from  grapes. 

With  "Love,  Love,  Love,"  above  the  pain, 
*—  The  vine-like  song  with  its  wine-like  rain. 

Through  heaven  under  heaven  the  song  takes  root 
Of  the  turning,  burning,  deathless  fruit. 


EYE-WITNESS  61 


I  came  to  the  earth  and  the  pain  so  near  me, 
I  tried  that  song  but  they  could  n't  hear  me. 

I  went  down  into  the  ground  to  grow, 

A  seed  for  a  song  that  would  make  men  know. 

Into  the  ground  from  my  reamer's  light 
I  went;  he  watched  me  sink  to  night. 

Deep  in  the  ground  from  my  human  grieving, 
His  pain  ploughed  in  me  to  believing. 

Oh,  he  took  earth's  pain  to  be  his  bride, 
While  the  heart  of  life  sang  in  his  side. 

For  I  felt  that  pain,  I  took  its  kiss, 
My  heart  broke  into  dust  with  his. 

Then  sudden  through  the  earth  I  found  life  springing; 
The  dust  men  trampled  on  was  singing. 

Deep  in  my  dust  I  felt  its  tones; 

The  roots  of  beauty  went  round  my  bones. 

I  stirred,  I  rose  like  a  flame,  like  a  river, 
I  stood  on  the  line,  I  could  sing  forever. 

Love  had  pierced  into  my  human  sheathing, 
Song  came  out  of  me  simple  as  breathing. 

A  freight  came  by,  the  line  grew  colder, 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 


62  GOD'S  ACRE 


Says,  "Don't  stay  on  the  line  such  nights," 
And  led  me  by  the  hand  to  the  station  lights. 

I  asked  him  in  front  of  the  station-house  wall 
If  he  had  lodging.  Says,  "None  at  all." 

I  pointed  to  my  heart  and  looked  in  his  face.  — 
"Here,  —  if  you  have  n't  got  a  better  place." 

He  looked  and  he  said:  "Oh,  we  still  must  roam 
But  if  you'll  keep  it  open,  well,  I'll  call  it  'home.'" 

The  thrush  now  slept  whose  pillow  was  his  wing. 
So  the  song  ended  and  the  four  remained 
Still  in  the  faint  starshinj  that  silvered  them, 
While  the  low  sound  went  on  of  broken  water 
Out  of  the  spring  and  through  the  darkness  flowing 
Over  a  stone  that  held  it  from  the  sea. 
Whether  the  men  spoke  after  could  not  be  told, 
A  mist  from  the  ground  so  veiled  them,  but  they  waited 
A  little  longer  till  the  moon  came  up; 
Then  on  the  gilded  track  leading  to  the  mountains, 
Against  the  moon  they  faded  in  common  gold 
And  earth  bore  East  with  all  toward  the  new  morning. 

Eidgely  Torrence 

GOD'S  ACRE 

BECAUSE  we  felt  there  could  not  be 

A  mowing  in  reality 

So  white  and  feathery-blown  and  gay 

With  blossoms  of  wild  caraway, 

I  said  to  Celia,  "Let  us  trace 

The  secret  of  this  pleasant  place!" 


GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  63 

We  knew  some  deeper  beauty  lay 
Below  the  bloom  of  caraway, 
And  when  we  bent  the  white  aside 
We  came  to  paupers  who  had  died: 
Rough  wooden  shingles  row  on  row, 
And  God's  name  written  there  —  John  Doe. 

Witter  Bynner 

GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS 
•       INTO  HEAVEN l 

(To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  The  Blood  of  the  Lamb  with 
indicated  instrument) 

I 

(Bass  drum  beaten  loudly) 
BOOTH  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum  — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
The  Saints  smiled  gravely  and  they  said:  "He's  come." 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
Walking  lepers  followed,  rank  on  rank, 
Lurching  bravoes  from  the  ditches  dank, 
Drabs  from  the  alleyways  and  drug  fiends  pale  — 
Minds  still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail :  — 
Vermin-eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath, 
Unwashed  legions  with  the  ways  of  Death  — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

(Banjos) 

Every  slum  had  sent  its  half-a-score 
The  round  world  over.  (Booth  had  groaned  for  more.) 
Every  banner  that  the  wide  world  flies 
Bloomed  with  glory  and  transcendent  dyes. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  General  William  Booth 
Enters  into  Heaven,  and  Other  Poems,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Copyright,  1913, 
by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


64  GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH 

Big-voiced  lasses  made  their  banjos  bang, 

Tranced,  fanatical,  they  shrieked  and  sang:  — 

"Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?" 

Hallelujah!  It  was  queer  to  see 

Bull-necked  convicts  with  that  land  make  free. 

Loons  with  trumpets  blowed  a  blare,  blare,  blare, 

On,  on  upward  thro'  the  golden  air! 

(Are  you  washed  hi  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

II 

(Bass  drum  slower  and  softer) 
Booth  died  blind  and  still  by  Faith  he  trod, 
Eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  ways  of  God. 
Booth  led  boldly,  and  he  looked  the  chief, 
Eagle  countenance  in  sharp  relief, 
Beard  a-flying,  air  of  high  command 
Unabated  in  that  holy  land. 

(Sweet  flute  music) 

Jesus  came  from  out  the  court-house  door, 
Stretched  his  hands  above  the  passing  poor. 
Booth  saw  not,  but  led  his  queer  ones  there 
Round  and  round  the  mighty  court-house  square. 
Yet  in  an  instant  all  that  blear  review 
Marched  on  spotless,  clad  in  raiment  new. 
The  lame  were  straightened,  withered  limbs  uncurled 
And  blind  eyes  opened  on  a  new,  sweet  world. 

(Bass  drum  louder) 

Drabs  and  vixens  in  a  flash  made  whole! 
Gone  was  the  weasel-head,  the  snout,  the  jowl ! 
Sages  and  sibyls  now,  and  athletes  clean, 
Rulers  of  empires  and  of  forests  green! 


COMPENSATION  65 

(Grand  chorus  of  all  instruments.   Tambourines  to  the 
foreground) 

The  hosts  were  sandalled,  and  their  wings  were 

fire! 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
But  their  noise  played  havoc  with  the  angel-choir 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
O,  shout  Salvation!  It  was  good  to  see 
Kings  and  Princes  by  the  Lamb  set  free. 
The  banjos  rattled  and  the  tambourines 
Jing-j ing- jingled  in  the  hands  of  Queens. 

(Reverently  sung,  no  instruments) 
And  when  Booth  halted  by  the  curb  for  prayer 
He  saw  his  Master  thro'  the  flag-filled  air. 
Christ  came  gently  with  a  robe  and  crown 
For  Booth  the  soldier,  while  the  throng  knelt  down. 
He  saw  King  Jesus.  They  were  face  to  face, 
And  he  knelt  a-weeping  in  that  holy  place. 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 

Vachel  Lindsay 

COMPENSATION 

I  KNOW  the  sorrows  of  the  last  abyss: 

I  walked  the  cold  black  pools  without  a  star; 

I  lay  on  rock  of  unseen  flint  and  spar; 

I  heard  the  execrable  serpent  hiss; 

I  dreamed  of  sun,  fruit-tree,  and  virgin's  kiss; 

I  woke  alone  with  midnight  near  and  far, 

And  everlasting  hunger,  keen  to  mar; 

But  I  arose,  and  my  reward  is  this : 


66  A  GIRL'S  SONGS 

I  am  no  more  one  more  amid  the  throng : 
Though  name  be  naught,  and  lips  forever  weak, 
I  seem  to  know  at  last  of  mighty  song; 
And  with  no  blush,  no  tremor  on  the  cheek, 
I  do  claim  consort  with  the  great  and  strong 
Who  suffered  ill  and  had  the  gift  to  speak. 
s  William  Ellery  Leonard 

A  GIRL'S  SONGS 

BORROWER 

I  SING  of  sorrow, 

I  sing  of  weeping. 

I  have  no  sorrow. 

i 

I  only  borrow 

From  some  tomorrow 

Where  it  lies  sleeping, 
Enough  of  sorrow 

To  sing  of  weeping. 

VINTAGE 

Heartbreak  that  is  too  new 
Can  not  be  used  to  make 

Beauty  that  will  startle; 

That  takes  an  old  heartbreak. 

Old  heartbreaks  are  old  wine. 
Too  new  to  pour  is  mine. 

THE  KISS 

Your  kiss  lies  on  my  face 

Like  the  first  snow 
Upon  a  summer  place. 


THE  ENCHANTED  SHEEPFOLD          67 

Bewildered  by  that  wonder, 
The  grasses  tremble  under 
The  thing  they  do  not  know. 
I  tremble  even  so. 

FREE 

Over  and  over 
I  tell  the  sky: 
I  am  free  —  I! 

Over  and  over  I  tell  the  sea: 
—  I  am  free! 

Over  and  over  I  tell  my  lover 

I  am  free,  free! 
Over  and  over. 

But  when  the  night  comes  black  and  cold, 
I  who  am  young,  with  fear  grow  old; 
And  I  know,  when  the  world  is  clear  of  sound, 
I  am  bound  —  bound. 

Mary  Carolyn  Davies 


THE  ENCHANTED  SHEEPFOLD 

THE  hills  far-off  were  blue,  blue, 
The  hills  at  hand  were  brown; 

And  all  the  herd-bells  called  to  me 
As  I  came  by  the  down. 

The  briars  turned  to  roses,  roses; 
Ever  we  stayed  to  pull 


68  WHERE  LOVE  IS 

A  white  little  rose,  and  a  red  little  rose, 
And  a  lock  of  silver  wool. 

Nobody  heeded, —  none,  none; 

And  when  True  Love  came  by, 
They  thought  him  naught  but  the  shepherd-boy. 

Nobody  knew  but  I! 

The  trees  were  feathered  like  birds,  birds; 

Birds  were  in  every  tree. 
Yet  nobody  heeded,  nobody  heard, 

Nobody  knew,  save  me. 

And  he  is  fairer  than  all  —  all. 

How  could  a  heart  go  wrong? 
For  his  eyes  I  knew,  and  his  knew  mine, 

Like  an  old,  old  song. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

WHERE  LOVE  IS 

BY  the  rosy  cliffs  of  Devon,  on  a  green  hill's  crest, 
I  would  build  me  a  house  as  a  swallow  builds  its  nest; 
I  would  curtain  it  with  roses,  and  the  wind  should 

breathe  to  me 
The  sweetness  of  the  roses  and  the  saltness  of  the  sea. 

Where  the  Tuscan  olives  whiten  in  the  hot  blue  day, 
I  would  hide  me  from  the  heat  in  a  little  hut  of  gray, 
While  the  singing  of  the  husbandman  should  scale  my 

lattice  green 
From  the  golden  rows  of  barley  that  the  poppies  blaze 

between. 


THE  LOVER  ENVIES  AN  OLD  MAN     69 

Narrow  is  the  street,  Dear,  and  dingy  are  the  walls 
Wherein  I  wait  your  coming  as  the  twilight  falls. 
All  day  with  dreams  I  gild  the  grime  till  at  your  step 

I  start  — 
Ah  Love,  my  country  in  your  arms  —  my  home  upon 

your  heart! 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

INTERLUDE  * 

I  AM  not  old,  but  old  enough 
To  know  that  you  are  very  young. 
It  might  be  said  I  am  the  leaf, 
And  you  the  blossom  newly  sprung. 

So  I  shall  grow  a  while  with  you, 
And  hear  the  bee  and  watch  the  cloud, 
Before  the  dragon  on  the  branch, 
The  caterpillar,  weaves  a  shroud. 

Scudder  Middleton 

THE  LOVER  ENVIES  AN  OLD  MAN 

I  ENVY  the  feeble  old  man 
Dozing  there  in  the  sun. 
When  all  you  can  do  is  done 
And  life  is  a  shattered  plan, 
What  is  there  better  than 
Dozing  in  the  sun? 

I  could  grow  very  still 
Like  an  old  stone  on  a  hill 

»  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  New  Day,  by 
Scudder  Middleton.   Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


70     IF  YOU  SHOULD  TIRE  OF  LOVING  ME 

And  content  me  with  the  one 

Thing  that  is  ever  kind, 

The  tender  sun. 

I  could  grow  deaf  and  blind 

And  never  hear  her  voice, 

Nor  think  I  could  rejoice 

With  her  in  any  place; 

And  I  could  forget  her  face, 

And  love  only  the  sun. 

Because  when  we  are  tired, 

Very  very  tired, 

And  cannot  again  be  fired 

By  any  hope, 

The  sun  is  so  comforting! 

A  little  bird  under  the  wing 

Of  its  mother,  is  not  so  warm. 

Give  me  only  the  scope 

Of  an  old  chair 

Out  in  the  air, 

Let  me  rest  there, 

Moving  not, 

Loving  not, 

Only  dozing  my  days  till  my  days  be  done, 

Under  the  sun. 

Shaemas  0  Sheet 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  TIRE  OF  LOVING  ME 

IF  you  should  tire  of  loving  me 

Some  one  of  our  far  days, 
Oh,  never  start  to  hide  your  heart 

Or  cover  thought  with  praise. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MENDING  71 

For  every  word  you  would  not  say 
Be  sure  my  heart  has  heard, 

So  go  from  me  all  silently 
Without  a  kiss  or  word ; 

For  God  must  give  you  happiness, 

And  Oh,  it  may  befall 
In  listening  long  to  Heaven-song 

I  may  not  care  at  all! 

Margaret  Widdemer 

THE  FLOWER  OF  MENDING1 

WHEN  Dragon-fly  would  fix  his  wings, 
When  Snail  would  patch  his  house, 
When  moths  have  marred  the  overcoat 
Of  tender  Mister  Mouse, 

The  pretty  creatures  go  with  haste 

To  the  sunlit  blue-grass  hills 

Where  the  Flower  of  Mending  yields  the  wax 

And  webs  to  help  their  ills. 

The  hour  the  coats  are  waxed  and  webbed 
They  fall  into  a  dream, 
And  when  they  wake  the  ragged  robes 
Are  joined  without  a  seam. 

My  heart  is  but  a  dragon-fly, 
My  heart  is  but  a  mouse, 
My  heart  is  but  a  haughty  snail 
In  a  little  stony  house. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Chinese  Nightin 
gale,  and  Other  Poemt,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Mac- 


72  VENUS  TRANSIENS 

Your  hand  was  honey-comb  to  heal, 
Your  voice  a  web  to  bind. 
You  were  a  Mending  Flower  to  me 
To  cure  my  heart  and  mind. 

Vachel  Lindsay 

VENUS  TRANSIENS1 

TELL  me, 

Was  Venus  more  beautiful 

Than  you  are, 

When  she  topped 

The  crinkled  waves, 

Drifting  shoreward 

On  her  plaited  shell? 

Was  Botticelli's  vision 

Fairer  than  mine; 

And  were  the  painted  rosebuds 

He  tossed  his  lady, 

Of  better  worth 

Than  the  words  I  blow  about  you 

To  cover  your  too  great  loveliness 

As  with  a  gauze 

Of  misted  silver? 

For  me, 

You  stand  poised 

In  the  blue  and  buoyant  air, 

Cinctured  by  bright  winds, 

Treading  the  sunlight. 

And  the  waves  which  precede  you 

Ripple  and  stir 

The  sands  at  your  feet. 

Amy  Lowell 

i  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Pictures  of  the  Float 
ing  World,  by  Amy  Lowell.  Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


THE  DREAM  OF  AENGUS  OG     73 

THE  DREAM  OF  AENGUS  OG 

WHEN  the  rose  of  Morn  through  the  Dawn  was  breaking, 
And  white  on  the  hearth  was  last  night's  flame, 

Thither  to  me  'twixt  sleeping  and  waking, 
Singing  out  of  the  mists  she  came. 

And  grey  as  the  mists  on  the  spectre  meadows 
Were  the  eyes  that  on  my  eyes  she  laid, 

And  her  hair's  red  splendor  through  the  shadows 
Like  to  the  marsh-fire  gleamed  and  played. 

And  she  sang  of  the  wondrous  far-off  places 

That  a  man  may  only  see  in  dreams, 
The  death-still,  odorous,  starlit  spaces 

Where  Time  is  lost  and  no  life  gleams. 

And  there  till  the  day  had  its  crest  uplifted, 
She  stood  with  her  still  face  bent  on  me, 

Then  forth  with  the  Dawn  departing  drifted 
Light  as  a  foam-fleck  on  the  sea. 

And  now  my  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  swallow 

That  here  no  solace  of  rest  may  find, 
Forevermore  I  follow  and  follow 

Her  white  feet  glancing  down  the  wind. 

And  forevermore  in  my  ears  are  ringing  — 
(Oh,  red  lips  yet  shall  I  kiss  you  dumb!) 

Twain  sole  words  of  that  May  morn's  singing, 
Calling  to  me  "Hither"!  and  "Come"! 

From  flower-bright  fields  to  the  wild  lake-sedges 
Crying  my  steps  when  the  Day  has  gone, 


74  YOU 

Till  dim  and  small  down  the  Night's  pale  edges 
The  stars  have  fluttered  one  by  one. 

And  light  as  the  thought  of  a  love  forgotten, 
The  hours  skim  past,  while  before  me  flies 

That  face  of  the  Sun  and  Mist  begotten, 
Its  singing  lips  and  death-cold  eyes. 

Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

"I  AM  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIGH  FAR-SEEING 
PLACES" 

I  AM  in  love  with  high  far-seeing  places 

That  look  on  plains  half-sunlight  and  half-storm,  — 

In  love  with  hours  when  from  the  circling  faces 

Veils  pass,  and  laughing  fellowship  glows  warm. 

You  who  look  on  me  with  grave  eyes  where  rapture 

And  April  love  of  living  burn  confessed, — 

The  Gods  are  good!  The  world  lies  free  to  capture! 

Life  has  no  walls.  O  take  me  to  your  breast! 

Take  me,  —  be  with  me  for  a  moment's  span!  — 

I  am  hi  love  with  all  unveiled  faces. 

I  seek  the  wonder  at  the  heart  of  man; 

I  would  go  up  to  the  far-seeing  places. 

While  youth  is  ours,  turn  toward  me  for  a  space 

The  marvel  of  your  rapture-lighted  face! 

Arthur  Davison  Ficke 

-, 

YOU 

DEEP  in  the  heart  of  me, 
I  Nothing  but  You! 

See  through  the  art  of  me  — 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  me 


CHOICE  75 


Find  the  best  part  of  me, 
Changeless  and  true. 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  me, 
Nothing  but  You! 

Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 

CHOICE 

I'd  rather  have  the  thought  of  you 
To  hold  against  my  heart, 
My  spirit  to  be  taught  of  you 
With  west  winds  blowing, 
Than  all  the  warm  caresses 
Of  another  love's  bestowing, 
Or  all  the  glories  of  the  world 
In  which  you  had  no  part. 

I  'd  rather  have  the  theme  of  you 

To  thread  my  nights  and  days, 

I'd  rather  have  the  dream  of  you 

With  faint  stars  glowing, 

I  'd  rather  have  the  want  of  you, 

The  rich,  elusive  taunt  of  you 

Forever  and  forever  and  forever  unconfessed 

Than  claim  the  alien  comfort 

Of  any  other's  breast. 

O  lover!  O  my  lover, 

That  this  should  come  to  me! 

I'd  rather  have  the  hope  for  you, 

Ah,  Love,  I  'd  rather  grope  for  you 

Within  the  great  abyss 

Than  claim  another's  kiss  — 


76  ROMANCE 


Alone  I'd  rather  go  my  way 
Throughout  eternity. 

Angela  Morgan 

SONG 

THE  bride,  she  wears  a  white,  white  rose  —  the 

plucking  it  was  mine; 
The  poet  wears  a  laurel  wreath  —  and  I  the  laurel 

twine; 
And  oh,  the  child,  your  little  child,  that's  clinging 

close  to  you, 
It  laughs  to  wear  my  violets  —  they  are  so  sweet  and 

blue! 

And  I,  I  have  a  wreath  to  wear  —  ah,  never  rue  nor 

thorn ! 
I  sometimes  think  that  bitter  wreath  could  be  more 

sweetly  worn! 
For  mine  is  made  of  ghostly  bloom,  of  what  I  can't 

forget  — 
The   fallen   leaves   of   other   crowns  —  rose,   laurel, 

violet! 

Margaret  Steele  Anderson 

ROMANCE1 

WHY  should  we  argue  with  the  falling  dust 
Or  tremble  in  the  traffic  of  the  days? 
Our  hearts  are  music-makers  in  the  clouds, 
Our  feet  are  running  on  the  heavenly  ways. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  New  Day,  by 
Scudder  Middleton.     Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


GOOD-BYE  77 


We'll  go  and  find  the  honey  of  romance 
Within  the  hollow  of  the  sacred  tree. 
There  is  a  spirit  in  the  eastern  sky,      • 
Calling  along  the  dawn  to  you  and  me. 

She  '11  lead  us  to  the  forest  where  she  hides 
The  yellow  wine  that  keeps  the  angels  young  — 
We  are  the  chosen  lovers  of  the  earth 
For  whom  alone  the  golden  comb  was  hung. 

Scudder  Middleton 


GOOD-BYE 

GOOD-BYE  to  tree  and  tower, 

To  meadow,  stream,  and  hill, 

Beneath  the  white  clouds  marshalled  close 

At  the  wind's  will. 

Good-bye  to  the  gay  garden, 

With  prim  geraniums  pied, 

And  spreading  yew  trees,  old,  unchanging 

Tho'  men  have  died. 

Good-bye  to  the  New  Castle, 
With  granite  walls  and  grey, 
And  rooms  where  faded  greatness  still 
Lingers  to-day. 

To  every  friend  in  Mallow, 
When  I  am  gone  afar, 
These  words  of  ancient  Celtic  hope, 
"Peace  after  war." 


78  BEYOND  RATHKELLY 

I  would  return  to  Erin 
When  all  these  wars  are  by, 
Live  long  among  her  hills  before 
My  last  good-bye. 

Norreys  Jephson  0' Conor 

BEYOND  RATHKELLY 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill, 
Just  beyond  Rathkelly, 

—  Och,  to  be  on  the  Far  Hill 
O'er  Newtonstewart  Town! 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill 

With  Marget's  daughter  Nellie, 

The  night  was  up  and  the  moon  was  out, 
And  a  star  was  falling  down. 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill, 
Just  beyond  Rathkelly, 

—  Och,  to  be  on  the  Far  Hill 
Above  the  Bridge  o'Moyle! 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill, 

With  Marget's  daughter  Nellie, 

I  made  a  wish  before  the  star 
Had  fallen  in  the  Foyle. 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill, 
Just  beyond  Rathkelly, 

—  Och,  to  be  on  the  Far  Hill 
With  the  hopes  that  I  had  then! 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill, 

I  wished  for  little  Nellie, 
And  if  a  star  were  falling  now 

I'd  wish  for  her  again. 

Francis  Carlin 


A  SONG  OF  TWO  WANDERERS         79 

A  SONG  OF  TWO  WANDERERS 

DEAR,  when  I  went  with  you 
To  where  the  town  ends, 
Simple  things  that  Christ  loved  — - 
They  were  our  friends; 
Tree  shade  and  grass  blade 
And  meadows  in  flower; 
Sun-sparkle,  dew-glisten, 
Star-glow  and  shower; 
Cool-flowing  song  at  night 
Where  the  river  bends, 
And  the  shingle  croons  a  tune  — 
These  were  our  friends* 

Under  us  the  brown  earth 

Ancient  and  strong, 

The  best  bed  for  wanderers 

All  the  night  long; 

Over  us  the  blue  sky 

Ancient  and  dear, 

The  best  roof  to  shelter  all 

Glad  wanderers  here; 

And  racing  between  them  there 

Falls  and  ascends 

The  chantey  of  the  clean  winds  — 

These  were  our  friends. 

By  day  on  the  broad  road 
Or  on  the  narrow  trail, 
Angel  wings  shadowed  us, 
Glimmering  pale 


80         IN  THE  MUSHROOM  MEADOWS 

Through  the  red  heat  of  noon; 
In  the  twilight  of  dawn 
Fairies  broke  fast  with  us; 
Prophets  led  us  on, 
Heroes  were  kind  to  us 
Day  after  happy  day; 
Many  white  Madonnas 
We  met  on  our  way  — 
Farmer  and  longshoreman, 
Fisherman  and  wife, 
Children  and  laborers 
Brave  enough  for  Life, 
Simple  folk  that  Christ  loved  — 
They  were  our  friends.  .  .  . 

Dear,  we  must  go  again 
To  where  the  town  ends.  .  . 

Marguerite  Wilkinson 

IN  THE  MUSHROOM  MEADOWS 

SUN  on  the  dewy  grasslands  where  late  the  frost  hath 
shone, 

And  lo,  what  elfin  cities  are  these  we  come  upon!' 

What  pigmy  domes  and  thatches,  what  Arab  caravan, 

What  downy-roofed  pagodas  that  have  known  no 
touch  of  man ! 

Are  these  the  oldtime  meadows?  Yes,  the  wildgrape 
scents  the  air; 

The  breath  of  ripened  orchards  still  is  incense  every 
where; 

Yet  do  these  dawn-encampments  bring  the  lurking 
memories 

Of  Egypt  and  of  Burma  and  the  shores  of  China  Seas. 

Thomas  Walsh 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  TO  NOWHERE  81 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  TO  NOWHERE 

THERE'S  a  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 

In  a  meadow  that  I  know, 
Where  an  inland  island  rises 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow; 
There  it  wanders  under  willows 

And  beneath  the  silver  green 
Of  the  birches'  silent  shadows 

Where  the  early  violets  lean. 

Other  pathways  lead  to  Somewhere, 

But  the  one  I  love  so  well 
Had  no  end  and  no  beginning  — 

Just  the  beauty  of  the  dell, 
Just  the  windflowers  and  the  lilies 

Yellow  striped  as  adder's  tongue, 
Seem  to  satisfy  my  pathway 

As  it  winds  their  sweets  among. 

There  I  go  to  meet  the  Springtime, 

When  the  meadow  is  aglow, 
Marigolds  amid  the  marshes,  — 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow.  — 
There  I  find  my  fair  oasis, 

And  with  care-free  feet  I  tread 
For  the  pathway  leads  to  Nowhere, 

And  the  blue  is  overhead! 

All  the  ways  that  lead  to  Somewhere 
Echo  with  the  hurrying  feet 

Of  the  Struggling  and  the  Striving, 
But  the  way  I  find  so  sweet 


82  ELLIS  PARK 


Bids  me  dream  and  bids  me  linger, 
Joy  and  Beauty  are  its  goal,  — 

On  the  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 
I  have  sometimes  found  my  soul ! 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 


,, 


DAYS 

SOME  days  my  thoughts  are  just  cocoons  —  all  cold, 

and  dull,  and  blind, 
They  hang  from  dripping  branches  in  the  grey  woods 

of  my  mind; 

And  other  days  they  drift  and  shine  —  such  free  and 

flying  things ! 
I  find  the  gold-dust  in  my  hair,  left  by  their  brushing 

wings. 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

ELLIS  PARK 

LITTLE  park  that  I  pass  through, 

I  carry  off  a  piece  of  you 

Every  morning  hurrying  down 

To  my  work-day  in  the  town; 

Carry  you  for  country  there 

To  make  the  city  ways  more  fair. 

I  take  your  trees, 

And  your  breeze, 

Your  greenness, 

Your  cleanness, 

Some  of  your  shade,  some  of  your  sky, 

Some  of  your  calm  as  I  go  by; 


A  NOTE  FROM  THE  PIPES  83 

Your  flowers  to  trim 

The  pavements  grim; 

Your  space  for  room  in  the  jostled  street 

And  grass  for  carpet  to  my  feet. 

Your  fountains  take  and  sweet  bird  calls 

To  sing  me  from  my  office  walls. 

All  that  I  can  see 

I  carry  off  with  me. 

But  you  never  miss  my  theft, 

So  much  treasure  you  have  left. 

As  I  find  you,  fresh  at  morning, 

So  I  find  you,  home  returning  — 

Nothing  lacking  from  your  grace. 

All  your  riches  wait  in  place 

For  me  to  borrow 

On  the  morrow. 

Do  you  hear  this  praise  of  you, 
Little  park  that  I  pass  through? 

Helen  Hoyt 


A  NOTE  FROM  THE  PIPES 

PAN,  blow  your  pipes  and  I  will  be 

Your  fern,  your  pool,  your  dream,  your  tree! 

I  heard  you  play,  caught  your  swift  eye, 

"A  pretty  melody!"  called  I, 

"Hail,  Pan!"  And  sought  to  pass  you  by. 

Now  blow  your  pipes  and  I  will  sing 
To  your  sure  lips'  accompanying! 


84  OPEN  WINDOWS 

Wild  God,  who  lifted  me  from  earth, 
Who  taught  me  freedom,  wisdom,  mirth, 
Immortalized  my  body's  worth,  — 

Blow,  blow  your  pipes !  And  from  afar 

I  '11  come  —  I  '11  be  your  bird,  your  star, 

Your  wood,  your  nymph,  your  kiss,  your  rhyme, 

And  all  your  godlike  summer-time! 

Leonora  Speyer 

AFTERNOON  ON  A  HILL 

I  WILL  be  the  gladdest  thing 

Under  the  sun! 
I  will  touch  a  hundred  flowers 

And  not  pick  one. 

I  will  look  at  cliffs  and  clouds 

With  quiet  eyes, 
Watch  the  wind  bow  down  the  grass, 

And  the  grass  rise. 

And  when  lights  begin  to  show 

Up  from  the  town, 
I  will  mark  which  must  be  mine, 

And  then  start  down! 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

OPEN  WINDOWS 

OUT  of  the  window  a  sea  of  green  trees 

Lift  their  soft  boughs  like  the  arms  of  a  dancer; 

They  beckon  and  call  me,  "Come  out  in  the  sun!" 
But  I  cannot  answer. 


OLD  AMAZE  85 


I  am  alone  with  Weakness  and  Pain, 

Sick  abed  and  June  is  going, 
I  cannot  keep  her,  she  hurries  by 

With  the  silver-green  of  her  garments  blowing. 

Men  and  women  pass  in  the  street 
Glad  of  the  shining  sapphire  weather; 

But  we  know  more  of  it  than  they, 
Pain  and  I  together. 

They  are  the  runners  in  the  sun, 
Breathless  and  blinded  by  the  race, 

But  we  are  watchers  in  the  shade 

Who  speak  with  Wonder  face  to  face. 

Sara  Teasdale 

OLD  AMAZE 

MINE  eyes  are  filled  today  with  old  amaze 
At  mountains,  and  at  meadows  deftly  strewn 
With  bits  of  the  gay  jewelry  of  June 

And  of  her  splendid  vesture;  and,  agaze, 

I  stand  where  Spring  her  bright  brocade  of  days 
Embroidered  o  'er,  and  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  sudden  runlets  —  the  faint  blasts  they  blow, 

Low,  on  their  stony  bugles,  in  still  ways. 

For  wonders  are  at  one,  confederate  yet: 

Yea,  where  the  wearied  year  came  to  a  close, 
An  odor  reminiscent  of  the  rose; 

And  everywhere  her  seal  has  Summer  set; 
And,  as  of  old,  in  the  horizon-sky, 
The  sun  can  find  a  lovely  place  to  die. 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 


86  AFTER  SUNSET 

VOYAGE  A  L'INFINI 

THE  swan  existing 

Is  like  a  song  with  an  accompaniment 

Imaginary. 

Across  the  grassy  lake, 

Across  the  lake  to  the  shadow  of  the  willows, 

It  is  accompanied  by  an  image, 

—  as  by  Debussy's 

"Reflets  dans  1'eau." 

The  swan  that  is 

Reflects 

Upon  the  solitary  water  —  breast  to  breast 

With  the  duplicity: 

"The  other  one!" 

And  breast  to  breast  it  is  confused. 

O  visionary  wedding!  O  stateliness  of  the  procession! 

It  is  accompanied  by  the  image  of  itself 

Alone. 

At  night 

The  lake  is  a  wide  silence, 

Without  imagination. 

Walter  Conrad  Arensberg 

AFTER  SUNSET 

I  HAVE  an  understanding  with  the  hills 
At  evening  when  the  slanted  radiance  fills 
Their  hollows,  and  the  great  winds  let  them  be, 
And  they  are  quiet  and  look  down  at  me. 


MORNING  SONG  OF  SENLIN  87 

Oh,  then  I  see  the  patience  in  their  eyes 
Out  of  the  centuries  that  made  them  wise. 
They  lend  me  hoarded  memory  and  I  learn 
Their  thoughts  of  granite  and  their  whims  of  fern, 
And  why  a  dream  of  forests  must  endure 
Though  every  tree  be  slain :  and  how  the  pure, 
Invisible  beauty  has  a  word  so  brief 
A  flower  can  say  it  or  a  shaken  leaf, 
But  few  may  ever  snare  it  in  a  song, 
Though  for  the  quest  a  life  is  not  too  long. 
When  the  blue  hills  grow  tender,  when  they  pull 
The  twilight  close  with  gesture  beautiful, 
And  shadows  are  their  garments,  and  the  air 
Deepens,  and  the  wild  veery  is  at  prayer, — 
Their  arms  are  strong  around  me;  and  I  know 
That  somehow  I  shall  follow  when  you  go 
To  the  still  land  beyond  the  evening  star, 
Where  everlasting  hills  and  valleys  are: 
And  silence  may  not  hurt  us  any  more, 
And  terror  shall  be  past,  and  grief,  and  war. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

MORNING  SONG  OF  SENLIN 

IT  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  and  in  the  morning 
When  the  light  drips  through  the  shutters  like  the 

dew, 

I  arise,  I  face  the  sunrise, 
And  do  the  things  my  fathers  learned  to  do. 
Stars  in  the  purple  dusk  above  the  rooftops 
Pale  in  a  saffron  mist  and  seem  to  die, 
And  I  myself  on  a  swiftly  tilting  planet 
Stand  before  a  glass  and  tie  my  tie. 


88  MORNING  SONG  OF  SENLIN 

Vine  leaves  tap  my  window, 
Dew-drops  sing  to  the  garden  stones, 
The  robin  chirps  in  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  three  clear  tones. 

It  is  morning.  I  stand  by  the  mirror 

And  tie  my  tie  once  more. 

While  waves  far  off  in  a  pale  rose  twilight 

Crash  on  a  white  sand  shore. 

I  stand  by  a  mirror  and  comb  my  hair: 

How  small  and  white  my  face !  — 

The  green  earth  tilts  through  a  sphere  of  air 

And  bathes  in  a  flame  of  space. 

There  are  houses  hanging  above  the  stars 

And  stars  hung  under  a  sea  .  .  . 

And  a  sun  far  off  in  a  shell  of  silence 

Dapples  my  walls  for  me  .  .  . 

It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  and  in  the  morning 
Should  I  not  pause  in  the  light  to  remember  God? 
Upright  and  firm  I  stand  on  a  star  unstable, 
He  is  immense  and  lonely  as  a  cloud. 
I  will  dedicate  this  moment  before  my  mirror 
To  him  alone,  for  him  I  will  comb  my  hair. 
Accept  these  humble  offerings,  cloud  of  silence! 
I  will  think  of  you  as  I  descend  the  stair. 

Vine  leaves  tap  my  window, 
The  snail-track  shines  on  the  stones, 
Dew-drops  flash  from  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  two  clear  tones. 

It  is  morning,  I  awake  from  a  bed  of  silence, 
Shining  I  rise  from  the  starless  waters  of  sleep. 


MORNING  SONG  OF  SENLIN  89 

The  walls  are  about  me  still  as  in  the  evening, 
I  am  the  same,  and  the  same  name  still  I  keep. 
The  earth  revolves  with  me,  yet  makes  no  motion, 
The  stars  pale  silently  in  a  coral  sky. 
In  a  whistling  void  I  stand  before  my  mirror, 
Unconcerned,  and  tie  my  tie. 

There  are  horses  neighing  on  far-off  hills 
Tossing  their  long  white  manes, 
And  mountains  flash  in  the  rose-white  dusk, 
Their  shoulders  black  with  rains  .  .  . 
It  is  morning.  I  stand  by  the  mirror 
And  surprise  my  soul  once  more; 
The  blue  air  rushes  above  my  ceiling, 
There  are  suns  beneath  my  floor  .  .  . 

...  It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  I  ascend  from  dark 
ness 

And  depart  on  the  winds  of  space  for  I  know  not 
where, 

My  watch  is  wound,  a  key  is  in  my  pocket, 

And  the  sky  is  darkened  as  I  descend  the  stair. 

There  are  shadows  across  the  windows,  clouds  in 
heaven, 

And  a  god  among  the  stars;  and  I  will  go 

Thinking  of  him  as  I  might  think  of  daybreak 

And  humming  a  tune  I  know  .  .  . 

Vine-leaves  tap  at  the  window, 
Dew-drops  sing  to  the  garden  stones, 
The  robin  chirps  in  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  three  clear  tones. 

Conrad  Aiken 


90  FEUERZAUBER 

GOOD  COMPANY 

TO-DAY  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the  trees, 
The  seven  sister-poplars  who  go  softly  in  a  line; 
And  I  think  my  heart  is  whiter  for  its  parley  with  a  star 
That  trembled  out  at  nightfall  and  hung  above  the  pine. 

The  call-note  of  a  redbird  from  the  cedars  in  the  dusk 
Woke  his  happy  mate  within  me  to  an  answer  free 

and  fine; 
And  a  sudden  angel  beckoned  from  a  column  of  blue 

smoke  — 
Lord,  who  am  I  that  they  should  stoop  —  these  holy  folk 

of  thine? 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

"FEUERZAUBER" 

I  NEVER  knew  the  earth  had  so  much  gold  — 
The  fields  run  over  with  it,  and  this  hill, 

Hoary  and  old, 

Is  young  with  buoyant  blooms  that  flame  and  thrill. 

Such  golden  fires,  such  yellow  —  lo,  how  good 
This  spendthrift  world,  and  what  a  lavish  God  — 

This  fringe  of  wood, 

Blazing  with  buttercup  and  goldenrod. 

You  too,  beloved,  are  changed.  Again  I  see 
Your  face  grow  mystical,  as  on  that  night 

You  turned  to  me, 

And  all  the  trembling  world  —  and  you  —  were 
white. 


BIRCHES  91 


Aye,  you  are  touched;  your  singing  lips  grow  dumb; 

The  fields  absorb  you,  color  you  entire  .  .  . 
And  you  become 

A  goddess  standing  in  a  world  of  fire! 

Louis  Untermeyer 

BIRCHES 

WHEN  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 

Across  the  lines  of  straighter  darker  trees, 

I  like  to  think  some  boy 's  been  swinging  them. 

But  swinging  does  n't  bend  them  down  to  stay. 

Ice-storms  do  that.   Often  you  must  have  seen  them 

Loaded  with  ice  a  sunny  winter  morning 

After  a  rain.   They  click  upon  themselves 

As  the  breeze  rises,  and  turn  many-colored 

As  the  stir  cracks  and  crazes  their  enamel. 

Soon  the  sun's  warmth  makes  them  shed  crystal  shells, 

Shattering  and  avalanching  on  the  snow-crust  — 

Such  heaps  of  broken  glass  to  sweep  away 

You  'd  think  the  inner  dome  of  heaven  had  fallen. 

They  are  dragged  to  the  withered  bracken  by  the  load, 

And  they  seem  not  to  break;  though  once  they  are 

bowed 

So  low  for  long,  they  never  right  themselves : 
You  may  see  their  trunks  arching  in  the  woods 
Years  afterwards,  trailing  their  leaves  on  the  ground 
Like  girls  on  hands  and  knees  that  throw  their  hair 
Before  them  over  their  heads  to  dry  in  the  sun. 
But  I  was  going  to  say  when  Truth  broke  in 
With  all  her  matter-of-fact  about  the  ice-storm 
(Now  am  I  free  to  be  poetical?) 
I  should  prefer  to  have  some  boy  bend  them 


92  BIRCHES 

As  he  went  out  and  in  to  fetch  the  cows  — 

Some  boy  too  far  from  town  to  learn  baseball, 

Whose  only  play  was  what  he  found  himself, 

Summer  or  winter,  and  could  play  alone. 

One  by  one  he  subdued  his  father's  trees 

By  riding  them  down  over  and  over  again 

Until  he  took  the  stiffness  out  of  them, 

And  not  one  but  hung  limp,  not  one  was  left 

For  him  to  conquer.  He  learned  all  there  was 

To  learn  about  not  launching  out  too  soon 

And  so  not  carrying  the  tree  away 

Clear  to  the  ground.  He  always  kept  his  poise 

To  the  top  branches,  climbing  carefully 

With  the  same  pains  you  use  to  fill  a  cup 

Up  to  the  brim,  and  even  above  the  brim. 

Then  he  flung  outward,  feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground. 

So  was  I  once  myself  a  swinger  of  birches. 

And  so  I  dream  of  going  back  to  be. 

It's  when  I'm  weary  of  considerations, 

And  life  is  too  much  like  a  pathless  wood 

Where  your  face  burns  and  tickles  with  the  cobwebs 

Broken  across  it,  and  one  eye  is  weeping 

From  a  twig's  having  lashed  across  it  open. 

I  'd  like  to  get  away  from  earth  awhile 

And  then  come  back  to  it  and  begin  over. 

May  no  fate  willfully  misunderstand  me 

And  half  grant  what  I  wish  and  snatch  me  away 

Not  to  return.  Earth's  the  right  place  for  love: 

I  don't  know  where  it's  likely  to  go  better. 

I  'd  like  to  go  by  climbing  a  birch  tree, 

And  climb  black  branches  up  a  snow-white  trunk 

Toward  heaven,  till  the  tree  could  bear  no  more,    , 


FIFTY  YEARS  SPENT  93 

But  dipped  its  top  and  set  me  down  again. 
That  would  be  good  both  going  and  coming  back. 
One  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger  of  birches. 

Robert  Frost 

FIFTY  YEARS  SPENT 

FIFTY  years  spent  before  I  found  me, 

Wind  on  my  mouth  and  the  taste  of  the  rain, 

Where  the  great  hills  circled  and  swept  around  me 

And  the  torrents  leapt  to  the  mist-drenched  plain; 

Ah,  it  was  long  this  coming  of  me 

Back  to  the  hills  and  the  sounding  sea. 

Ye  who  can  go  when  so  it  tideth 

To  fallow  fields  when  the  Spring  is  new, 

Finding  the  spirit  that  there  abideth, 

Taking  fill  of  the  sun  and  the  dew; 

Little  ye  know  of  the  cross  of  the  town 

And  the  small  pals  folk  who  go  up  and  down. 

Fifty  years  spent  before  I  found  me 
A  bank  knee-deep  with  climbing  rose, 
Saw,  or  had  space  to  look  around  me, 
Knew  how  the  apple  buds  and  blows; 
And  all  the  while  that  I  thought  me  wise 
I  walked  as  one  with  blinded  eyes. 

Scarcely  a  lad  who  passes  twenty 

But  finds  him  a  girl  to  balm  his  heart; 

Only  I,  who  had  work  so  plenty, 

Bade  this  loving  keep  apart: 

Once  I  saw  a  girl  in  a  crowd, 

But  I  hushed  my  heart  when  it  cried  out  aloud. 


94  THE  CITY 


City  courts  in  January,  — 
City  courts  in  wilted  June, 
Often  ye  will  catch  and  carry 
Echoes  of  some  straying  tune: 
Ah,  but  underneath  the  feet 
Echo  stifles  in  a  street. 

Fifty  years  spent,  and  what  do  they  bring  me? 
Now  I  can  buy  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Where  is  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  sing  thee? 
Where  is  the  life  for  thy  living  to  fill? 
And  thirty  years  back  in  a  city  crowd 
I  passed  a  girl  when  my  heart  cried  loud ! 

Maxwell  Struthers  Burt 

THE  CITY 

WHEN,  sick  of  all  the  sorrow  and  distress 

That  flourished  in  the  City  like  foul  weeds, 
I  sought  blue  rivers  and  green,  opulent  meads, 

And  leagues  of  unregarded  loneliness 

Whereon  no  foot  of  man  had  seemed  to  press, 

I  did  not  know  how  great  had  been  my  needs, 
How  wise  the  woodland's  gospels  and  her  creeds, 

How  good  her  faith  to  one  long  comfortless. 

But  in  the  silence  came  a  Voice  to  me; 
In  every  wind  it  murmured,  and  I  knew 

It  would  not  cease  though  far  my  heart  might  roam. 
It  called  me  in  the  sunrise  and  the  dew, 
At  noon  and  twilight,  sadly,  hungrily, 

The  jealous  City,  whispering  always  —  "Home!" 
Charles  Hanson  Towne 


THE  MOST-SACRED  MOUNTAIN         95 

THE  MOST-SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

SPACE,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  of  heaven, 

And  this  sharp  exultation,  like  a  cry,  after  the  slow 

six  thousand  steps  of  climbing! 
This  is  Tai  Shan,  the  beautiful,  the  most  holy. 

Below  my  feet  the  foot-hills  nestle,  brown  with  flecks 
of  green;  and  lower  down  the  flat  brown  plain, 
the  floor  of  earth,  stretches  away  to  blue  in 
finity. 

Beside  me  in  this  airy  space  the  temple  roofs  cut  their 
slow  curves  against  the  sky, 

And  one  black  bird  circles  above  the  void. 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  are  here; 

And  with  them  broods  eternity  —  a  swift,  white  peace, 

a  presence  manifest. 
The  rhythm  ceases  here.  Time  has  no  place.  This  is 

the  end  that  has  no  end. 

Here,  when  Confucius  came,  a  half  a  thousand  years 
before  the  Nazarene,  he  stepped,  with  me,  thus 
into  timelessness. 

The  stone  beside  us  waxes  old,  the  carven  stone  that 
says:  "On  this  spot  once  Confucius  stood  and 
felt  the  smallness  of  the  world  below." 

The  stone  grows  old : 

Eternity  is  not  for  stones. 

But  I  shall  go  down  from  this  airy  place,  this  swift 
white  peace,  this  stinging  exultation. 


96       THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO 

And  time  will  close  about  me,  and  my  soul  stir  to  the 

rhythm  of  the  daily  round. 
Yet,  having  known,  life  will  not  press  so  close, 

and  always  I  shall  feel  time  ravel  thin  about  me; 
For  once  I  stood 
In  the  white  windy  presence  of  eternity. 

Eunice  Tietjens 

THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO  . 

(At  the  Grand  Canyon) 
MY  brother,  man,  shapes  him  a  plan 

And  builds  him  a  house  in  a  day, 
But  I  have  toiled  through  a  million  years 

For  a  home  to  last  alway. 
I  have  flooded  the  sands  and  washed  them 
down, 

I  have  cut  through  gneiss  and  granite. 
No  toiler  of  earth  has  wrought  as  I, 

Since  God's  first  breath  began  it. 
High  mountain-buttes  I  have  chiselled,  to 
shade 

My  wanderings  to  the  sea. 
With  the  wind's  aid,  and  the  cloud's  aid, 
Unweary  and  mighty  and  unafraid, 

I  have  bodied  eternity. 

My  brother,  man,  builds  for  a  span: 

His  life  is  a  moment's  breath. 
But  I  have  hewn  for  a  million  years, 

Nor  a  moment  dreamt  of  death. 
By  moons  and  stars  I  have  measured  my  task  — 

And  some  from  the  skies  have  perished : 


THE  WATER  OUZEL  97 

But  ever  I  cut  and  flashed  and  foamed, 

As  ever  my  aim  I  cherished : 
My  aim  to  quarry  the  heart  of  earth, 

Till,  in  the  rock's  red  rise, 
Its  age  and  birth,  through  an  awful  girth 
Of  strata,  should  show  the  wonder-worth 

Of  patience  to  all  eyes. 

My  brother,  man,  builds  as  he  can, 

And  beauty  he  adds  for  his  joy, 
But  all  the  hues  of  sublimity 

My  pinnacled  walls  employ. 
Slow  shadows'  iris  them  all  day  long, 

And  silvery  veils,  soul-stilling, 
The  moon  drops  down  their  precipices, 

Soft  with  a  spectral  thrilling. 
For  all  immutable  dreams  that  sway 

With  beauty  the  earth  and  air, 
Are  ever  at  play,  by  night  and  day, 
My  house  of  eternity  to  array 

In  visions  ever  fair. 

Cole  Young  Rice 


THE  WATER  OUZEL 

LITTLE  brown  surf -bather  of  the  mountains! 

Spirit  of  foam,  lover  of  cataracts,  shaking  your  wings 

in  falling  waters! 
Have  you  no  fear  of  the  roar  and  rush  when  Nevada 

plunges  — 
Nevada,  the  shapely  dancer,  feeling  her  way  with  slim 

white  fingers? 


98  OLD  MANUSCRIPT 

How  dare  you  dash  at  Yosemite  the  mighty  — 

Tall,  white  limbed  Yosemite,  leaping  down,  down  over 
the  cliff? 

Is  it  not  enough  to  lean  on  the  blue  air  of  moun 
tains? 

Is  it  not  enough  to  rest  with  your  mate  at  timberline, 
in  bushes  that  hug  the  rocks? 

Must  you  fly  through  mad  waters  where  the  heaped-up 
granite  breaks  them? 

Must  you  batter  your  wings  in  the  torrent? 

Must  you  plunge  for  life  and  death  through  the  foam? 

Harriet  Monroe 

OLD  MANUSCRIPT 

THE  sky 

Is  that  beautiful  old  parchment 

In  which  the  sun 

And  the  moon 

Keep  their  diary. 

To  read  it  all, 

One  must  be  a  linguist 

More  learned  than  Father  Wisdom; 

And  a  visionary 

More  clairvoyant  than  Mother  Dream. 

But  to  feel  it, 

One  must  be  an  apostle: 

One  who  is  more  than  intimate 

In  having  been,  always, 

The  only  confidant  — 

Like  the  earth 

Or  the  sky. 

Alfred  Kreymborg 


EVENING  SONG  OF  SENLIN 


THE  RUNNER  IN  THE  SKIES 

WHO  is  the  runner  in  the  skies, 
With  her  blowing  scarf  of  stars, 
And  our  Earth  and  sun  hovering  like  bees  about  her 

blossoming  heart? 

Her  feet  are  on  the  winds,  where  space  is  deep, 
Her  eyes  are  nebulous  and  veiled, 
She  hurries  through  the  night  to  a  far  lover. 

James  Oppenheim 

EVENING  SONG  OF  SENLIN 

IT  is  moonlight.  Alone  in  the  silence 

I  ascend  my  stairs  once  more, 

While  waves,  remote  in  a  pale  blue  starlight, 

Crash  on  a  white  sand  shore. 

It  is  moonlight.  The  garden  is  silent. 

I  stand  in  my  room  alone. 

Across  my  wall,  from  the  far-off  moon, 

A  rain  of  fire  is  thrown  .  .  . 

There  are  houses  hanging  above  the  stars, 
And  stars  hung  under  a  sea : 
And  a  wind  from  the  long  blue  vault  of  time 
Waves  my  curtains  for  me  .  .  . 

I  wait  in  the  dark  once  more, 
Swung  between  space  and  space: 
Before  my  mirror  I  lift  my  hands 
And  face  my  remembered  face. 
Is  it  I  who  stand  in  a  question  here, 
Asking  to  know  my  name?  .  .  . 


100      A  THRUSH  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT 

— — — — ^ — _ — 

It  is  I,  yet  I  know  not  whither  I  go, 
Nor  why,  nor  whence  I  came. 


It  is  I,  who  awoke  at  dawn 

And  arose  and  descended  the  stair, 

Conceiving  a  god  in  the  eye  of  the  sun,  — 

In  a  woman's  hands  and  hair. 

It  is  I  whose  flesh  is  grey  with  the  stones 

I  builded  into  a  wall : 

With  a  mournful  melody  in  my  brain 

Of  a  tune  I  cannot  recall  .  .  . 

There  are  roses  to  kiss:  and  mouths  to  kiss; 
And  the  sharp-pained  shadow  of  death. 
I  remember  a  rain-drop  on  my  cheek,  — 
A  wind  like  a  fragrant  breath  .  .  . 
And  the  star  I  laugh  on  tilts  through  heaven; 
And  the  heavens  are  dark  and  steep  .  .  . 
I  will  forget  these  things  once  more 
In  the  silence  of  sleep. 

Conrad  Aiken 


A  THRUSH  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT 

IN  came  the  moon  and  covered  me  with  wonder, 
Touched  me  and  was  near  me  and  made  me  very  still. 
In  came  a  rush  of  song,  like  rain  after  thunder, 
Pouring  importunate  on  my  window-sill. 

I  lowered  my  head,  I  hid  it,  I  would  not  see  nor  hear, 
The  birdsong  had  stricken  me,  had  brought  the  moon 
too  near. 


But  when  I  dared  to  lift  my  h^ad  ;  jiight  ^begari  ttf 

an 

With  singing  in  the  darkness.  And  then  the  thrush 

grew  still. 

And  the  moon  came  in,  and  silence,  on  my  window- 
sill. 

Witter  Bynner 


ORCHARD 

I  SAW  the  first  pear 

As  it  fell  — 

The  honey-seeking,  golden-banded, 

The  yellow  swarm 

Was  not  more  fleet  than  I, 

(Spare  us  from  loveliness) 

And  I  fell  prostrate 

Crying: 

You  have  flayed  us 

With  your  blossoms, 

Spare  us  the  beauty 

Of  fruit-trees. 

The  honey-seeking 
Paused  not, 

The  air  thundered  their  song, 
And  I  alone  was  prostrate. 

0  rough-hewn 
God  of  the  orchard, 

1  bring  you  an  offering  — 
Do  you,  alone  unbeautiful, 


102    >        •.„-  '1.    ;  HEAT 


v  • :  jfoi*  of  the  god,/ 

Spare  us  from  loveliness: 

These  fallen  hazel-nuts, 

Stripped  late  of  their  green  sheaths, 

Grapes,  red-purple, 

Their  berries 

Dripping  with  wine, 

Pomegranates  already  broken, 

And  shrunken  figs 

And  quinces  untouched, 

I  bring  you  as  offering. 

H.  D. 


HEAT 

O  WIND,  rend  open  the  heat, 
Cut  apart  the  heat, 
Rend  it  to  tatters. 

Fruit  cannot  drop 
Through  this  thick  air  — 
Fruit  cannot  fall  into  heat 
That  presses  up  and  blunts 
The  points  of  pears 
And  rounds  the  grapes. 

Cut  the  heat  — 
Plough  through  it, 
Turning  it  on  either  side 
Of  your  path. 

H.  D. 


MADONNA  OF  THE  EVENING  FLOWERS    103 

MADONNA  OF  THE  EVENING  FLOWERS 1 

ALL  day  long  I  have  been  working, 

Now  I  am  tired. 

I  call:  "Where  are  you?" 

But  there  is  only  the  oak  tree  rustling  in  the  wind. 

The  house  is  very  quiet, 

The  sun  shines  in  on  your  books, 

On  your  scissors  and  thimble  just  put  down, 

But  you  are  not  there. 

Suddenly  I  ain  lonely: 

Where  are  you? 

I  go  about  searching. 

Then  I  see  you, 

Standing  under  a  spire  of  pale  blue  larkspur, 

With  a  basket  of  roses  on  your  arm. 

You  are  cool,  like  silver, 

And  you  smile. 

I  think  the  Canterbury  bells  are  playing  little  tunes. 

You  tell  me  that  the  peonies  need  spraying, 

That  the  columbines  have  overrun  all  bounds, 

That  the  pyrus   japonica  should   be  cut  back  and 

rounded. 

You  tell  me  these  things. 
But  I  look  at  you,  heart  of  silver, 
White  heart-flame  of  polished  silver, 
Burning  beneath  the  blue  steeples  of  the  larkspur. 
And  I  long  to  kneel  instantly  at  your  feet, 
While  all  about  us  peal  the  loud,  sweet  Te  Deums  of  the 

Canterbury  bells. 

Amy  Lowell 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  ol  the  publishers,  from  Pictures  of  the  Float 
ing  World,  by  Amy  Lowell.   Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


104  THE  NEW  GOD 

THE  NEW  GOD 

YE  morning-glories,  ring  in  the  gale  your  bells, 

And  with  dew  water  the  walk's  dust  for  .the  burden- 
bearing  ants: 

Ye  swinging  spears  of  the  larkspur,  open  your  wells  of 
gold 

And  pay  your  honey-tax  to  the  hummingbird  .  .  . 

O  now  I  see  by  the  opening  of  blossoms, 
And  of  bills  of  the  hungry  fledglings, 
And  the  bright  travel  of  sun-drunk  insects, 
Morning's  business  is  afoot:  Earth  is  busied  with  a 
million  mouths! 

Where  goes  eaten  grass  and  thrush-snapped  dragon 
fly? 

Creation  eats  itself,  to  spawn  in  swarming  sun-rays  .  .  . 

Bull  and  cricket  go  to  it:  life  lives  on  life  .  .  . 

But  O,  ye  flame-daubed  irises,  and  ye  hosts  of  gnats, 

Like  a  well  of  light  moving  in  morning's  light, 

What  is  this  garmented  animal  that  comes  eating  and 
drinking  among  you? 

What  is  this  upright  one,  with  spade  and  with  shears? 

He  is  the  visible  and  the  invisible, 

Behind  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  are  other  mouth  and 

eyes .  .  . 

Thirster  after  visions 
He  sees  the  flowers  to  their  roots  and  the  Earth  back 

through  its  silent  ages: 
He  parts  the  sky  with  his  gaze: 


PATTERNS  105 


He  flings  a  magic  on  the  hills,  clothing  them  with 
Upanishad  music, 

Peopling  the  valley  with  dreamed  images  that  van 
ished  in  Greece  millenniums  back; 

And  in  the  actual  morning,  out  of  longing,  shapes  on 
the  hills 

To-morrow's  golden  grandeur  .  .  . 

O  ye  million  hungerers  and  ye  sun-rays 

Ye  are  the  many  mothers  of  this  invisible  god, 

This  Earth's  star  and  sun  that  rises  singing  and  toiling 

among  you, 

This  that  is  I,  in  joy,  in  the  garden, 
Singing  to  you,  ye  morning-glories, 
Calling  to  you,  ye  swinging  spears  of  the  larkspur. 

James  Oppenheim 

PATTERNS  * 

I  WALK  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden-paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.  As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 
And  the  train 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Men,  Wvmen  and 
Qhosts,  by  Amy  Lowell.     Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


106  PATTERNS 


Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 

On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 

Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 

Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 

Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 

Only  whalebone  and  brocade. 

And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 

Of  a  lime  tree.  For  my  passion 

Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 

The  daffodils  and  squills 

Flutter  in  the  breeze 

As  they  please. 

And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 

And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  plashing  of  waterdrops 

In  the  marble  fountain 

Comes  down  the  garden-paths. 

The  dripping  never  stops. 

Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 

A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 

So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 

But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

And  the  sliding  of  the  water 

Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 

Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown ! 

I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the 

ground. 
All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 


PATTERNS  107 


I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the 

paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  after, 
Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 
I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword-hilt  and 

the  buckles  on  his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze  for  my  heavy-booted  lover. 
Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 
And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body  as 

he  clasped  me, 
Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops, 
All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon  — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 
With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 
For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from 

the  Duke. 

"Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hartwell 
Died  in  action  Thursday  se'nnight." 
As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 
The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 
"Any  answer,  Madam,"  said  my  footman. 
"No,"  I  told  him. 

"  See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 
No,  no  answer." 


108  PATTERNS 


And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 

Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 

In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the 

sun, 

Each  one. 

I  stood  upright  too, 
Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 
By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 
Up  and  down  I  walked, 
Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 

In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 

We  would  have  broke  the  pattern; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  Lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "It  shall  be  as  you  have  said." 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden-paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and 

to  snow. 
I  shall  go 
Up  and  down 
In  my  gown. 


RICHARD  CORY  109 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from 

embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 
For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 
Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 
In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 
Christ!  What  are  patterns  for? 

Amy  Lowell 

RICHARD  CORY 

WHENEVER  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 
We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him : 
He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 
Clean  favored,  and  imperially  slim. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 

And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked; 

But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 

"Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich,  —  yes,  richer  than  a  king,  — 
And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace: 
In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything 
To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  in  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat,  and  cursed  the  bread, 
And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


110  THE  SILENT  FOLK 


OF  ONE  SELF-SLAIN 

WHEN  he  went  blundering  back  to  God, 
His  songs  half  written,  his  work  half  done, 

Who  knows  what  paths  his  bruised  feet  trod, 
What  hills  of  peace  or  pain  he  won? 

I  hope  God  smiled  and  took  his  hand, 
And  said,  "Poor  truant,  passionate  fool! 

Life's  book  is  hard  to  understand: 

Why  couldst  thou  not  remain  at  school?" 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 


THE  SILENT  FOLK 

OH,  praise  me  not  the  silent  folk; 
To  me  they  only  seem 
Like  leafless,  bird-abandoneo!  oak 
And  muffled,  frozen  stream. 


I  want  the  leaves  to  talk  and  tell 
The  joy  that 's  in  the  tree, 
And  water-nymphs  to  weave  a  spell 
Of  pixie  melody. 

Your  silent  folk  may  be  sincere, 

But  still,  when  all  is  said, 

We  have  to  grant  they  're  rather  drear,  — 

And  maybe,  too,  they're  dead. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


MAD  BLAKE  111 


CONVENTION 

THE  snow  is  lying  very  deep. 
My  house  is  sheltered  from  the  blast. 
I  hear  each  muffled  step  outside, 
I  hear  each  voice  go  past. 

But  I'll  not  venture  in  the  drift 
Out  of  this  bright  security, 
Till  enough  footsteps  come  and  go 
To  make  a  path  for  me. 

Agnes  Lee 


MAD  BLAKE 

BLAKE  saw  a  treeful  of  angels  at  Peckham  Rye, 
And  his  hands  could  lay  hold  on  the  tiger's  terrible 

heart. 

Blake  knew  how  deep  is  Hell,  and  Heaven  how  high, 
And  could  build  the  universe  from  one  tiny  part. 
Blake  heard  the  asides  of  God,  as  with  furrowed  brow 
He  sifts  the  star-streams  between  the  Then  and  the 

Now, 

In  vast  infant  sagacity  brooding,  an  infant's  grace 
Shining  serene  on  his  simple,  benignant  face. 

Blake  was  mad,  they  say,  —  and  Space's  Pandora-box 
Loosed   its  wonders  upon  him  —  devils,  but  angels 

indeed. 

I,  they  say,  am  sane,  but  no  key  of  mine  unlocks 
One  lock  of  one  gate  wherethrough  Heaven's  glory  is 

freed. 


112  THE  NAME 


And  I  stand  and  I  hold  my  breath,  daylong,  yearlong, 
Out  of  comfort  and  easy  dreaming  evermore  starting 

awake,  — 

Yearning  beyond  all  sanity  for  some  echo  of  that  Song 
Of  Songs  that  was  sung  to  the  soul  of  the  madman, 

Blake! 

Wm.  Rose  Eentt 

THE   NAME 

WHEN  I  come  back  from  secret  dreams 

In  gardens  deep  and  fair, 
How  very  curious  it  seems  — 

This  mortal  name  I  bear. 

For  by  this  name  I  make  their  bread 
And  trim  the  household  light 

And  sun  the  linen  for  the  bed 
And  close  the  door  at  night. 

I  wonder  who  myself  may  be, 
And  whence  it  was  I  came  — 

Before  the  Church  had  laid  on  me 
This  frail  and  earthly  name. 

My  sponsors  spake  unto  the  Lord 
And  three  things  promised  they, 

Upon  my  soul  with  one  accord 
Their  easy  vows  did  lay. 

My  ancient  spirit  heard  them  not. 

I  think  it  was  not  there. 
But  in  a  place  they  had  forgot 

It  drank  a  starrier  air. 


THE  NAME  113 


Yes,  in  a  silent  place  and  deep  — 
There  did  it  dance  and  run, 

And  sometimes  it  lay  down  to  sleep 
Or  sprang  into  the  sun. 

The  Priest  saw  not  my  aureole  shine! 

My  sweet  wings  saw  not  he ! 
He  graved  me  with  a  solemn  sign 

And  laid  a  name  on  me. 

Now  by  this  name  I  stitch  and  mend, 
The  daughter  of  my  home, 

By  this  name  do  I  save  and  spend 
And  when  they  call,  I  come. 

But  oh,  that  Name,  that  other  Name, 
More  secret  and  more  mine! 

It  burns  as  does  the  angelic  flame 
Before  the  midmost  shrine. 

Before  my  soul  to  earth  was  brought 

Into  God's  heart  it  came, 
He  wrote  a  meaning  in  my  thought 

And  gave  to  me  a  Name. 

By  this  Name  do  I  ride  the  air 
And  dance  from  star  to  star, 

And  I  behold  all  things  are  fair, 
For  I  see  them  as  they  are. 

I  plunge  into  the  deepest  seas, 
In  flames  I,  laughing,  burn. 

In  roseate  clouds  I  take  my  ease 
Nor  to  the  earth  return. 


114  THE  NAME 


It  is  my  beauteous  Name  —  my  own  — 

That  I  have  never  heard. 
God  keeps  it  for  Himself  alone, 

That  strange  and  lovely  word. 

God  keeps  it  for  Himself  —  but  yet 

You  are  His  voice,  and  so 
In  your  heart  He  is  calling  me, 

And  unto  you  I  go. 

Love,  by  this  Name  I  sing,  and  breathe 

A  fresh,  mysterious  air. 
By  this  I  innocently  wreathe 

New  garlands  for  my  hair. 

By  this  Name  I  am  born  anew 

More  beautiful,  more  bright. 
More  roseate  than  angelic  dew, 

Apparelled  in  delight. 

I  '11  sing  and  stitch  and  make  the  bread 

In  the  wonder  of  my  Name, 
And  sun  the  linen  for  the  bed 

And  tend  the  fireside  flame. 

By  this  Name  do  I  answer  yes  — 

Word  beautiful  and  true. 
By  this  I  '11  sew  the  bridal  dress 

I  shall  put  on  for  you. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


SONGS  OF  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE         115 
SONGS  OF  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE 

VISTA 

BEFORE  I  die  I  may  be  great, 

The  chanting  guest  of  kings, 
A  queen  in  wonderlands  of  song 

Where  every  blossom  sings. 
I  may  put  on  a  golden  gown 

And  walk  in  sunny  light, 
Carrying  in  my  hair  the  day, 

And  in  my  eyes  the  night. 

It  may  be  men  will  honor  me  — 

The  wistful  ones  and  wise, 
Who  know  the  ruth  of  victory, 

The  joy  of  sacrifice. 
I  may  be  rich,  I  may  be  gay, 

But  all  the  crowns  grow  old  — 
The  laurel  withers  and  the  bay 

And  dully  rusts  the  gold. 

Before  I  die  I  may  break  bread 

With  many  queens  and  kings  — 
Oh,  take  the  golden  gown  away, 

For  there  are  other  things  — 
And  I  shall  miss  the  love  of  babes 

With  flesh  of  rose  and  pearl, 
The  dewy  eyes,  the  budded  lips  — 

A  boy,  a  little  girl. 

THE   END 

My  father  got  me  strong  and  straight  and  slim, 
And  I  give  thanks  to  him; 


116  THE  HILL  WIFE 

My  mother  bore  me  glad  and  sound  and  sweet,  — 
I  kiss  her  feet. 

But  now,  with  me,  their  generation  fails, 

And  nevermore  avails 
To  cast  through  me  the  ancient  mould  again, 

Such  women  and  men. 

I  have  no  son,  whose  life  of  flesh  and  fire 
Sprang  from  my  splendid  sire, 

No  daughter  for  whose  soul  my  mother's  flesh 
Wrought  raiment  fresh. 

Life's  venerable  rhythms  like  a  flood 

Beat  in  my  brain  and  blood, 
Crying  from  all  the  generations  past, 

"Is  this  the  last?" 

And  I  make  answer  to  my  haughty  dead, 
Who  made  me,  heart  and  head, 

"  Even  the  sunbeams  falter,  flicker  and  bend  — 
I  am  the  end." 

Marguerite  Wilkinson 


THE  HILL  WIFE 

LONELINESS 
(Her  Word) 

ONE  ought  not  to  have  to  care 

So  much  as  you  and  I 
Care  when  the  birds  come  round  the  house 

To  seem  to  say  good-bye; 


THE  HILL  WIFE  117 

Or  care  so  much  when  they  come  back 
With  whatever  it  is  they  sing; 

The  truth  being  we  are  as  much 
Too  glad  for  the  one  thing 

As  we  are  too  sad  for  the  other  here  — 
With  birds  that  fill  their  breasts 

But  with  each  other  and  themselves 
And  their  built  or  driven  nests. 

HOUSE   FEAR 

ALWAYS  —  I  tell  you  this  they  learned  — 
Always  at  night  when  they  returned 
To  the  lonely  house  from  far  away, 
To  lamps  unlighted  and  fire  gone  gray, 
They  learned  to  rattle  the  lock  and  key 
To  give  whatever  might  chance  to  be 
Warning  and  time  to  be  off  in  flight: 
And  preferring  the  out-  to  the  in-door  night, 
They  learned  to  leave  the  house-door  wide 
Until  they  had  lit  the  lamp  inside. 

THE   OFT-REPEATED   DREAM 

SHE  had  no  saying  dark  enough 
For  the  dark  pine  that  kept 

Forever  trying  the  window-latch 
Of  the  room  where  they  slept. 

The  tireless  but  ineffectual  hands 
That  with  every  futile  pass 

Made  the  great  tree  seem  as  a  little  bird 
Before  the  mystery  of  glass! 


118  THE  HILL  WIFE 

It  never  had  been  inside  the  room, 
And  only  one  of  the  two 

Was  afraid  in  an  oft-repeated  dream 
Of  what  the  tree  might  do. 

THE   IMPULSE 

IT  was  too  lonely  for  her  there, 

And  too  wild, 
And  since  there  were  but  two  of  them, 

And  no  child, 

And  work  was  little  in  the  house, 

She  was  free, 
And  followed  where  he  furrowed  field, 

Or  felled  tree. 

She  rested  on  a  log  and  tossed 

The  fresh  chips, 
With  a  song  only  to  herself 

On  her  lips. 

And  once  she  went  to  break  a  bough 

Of  black  alder. 
She  strayed  so  far  she  scarcely  heard 

When  he  called  her  — 

And  did  n't  answer  —  did  n't  speak  — 

Or  return. 
She  stood,  and  then  she  ran  and  hid 

In  the  fern. 

He  never  found  her,  though  he  looked 
Everywhere, 


ENVOI  119 


And  he.  asked  at  her  mother's  house 
Was  she  there. 

Sudden  and  swift  and  light  as  that 

The  ties  gave, 
And  he  learned  of  finalities 

Besides  the  grave. 

Robert  Frost 

A  LOVE  SONG 

MY  love  it  should  be  silent,  being  deep  — 
And  being  very  peaceful  should  be  still  — 
Still  as  the  utmost  depths  of  ocean  keep  — 
Serenely  silent  as  some  mighty  hill. 

Yet  is  my  love  so  great  it  needs  must  fill 
With  very  joy  the  inmost  heart  of  me, 
The  joy  of  dancing  branches  on  the  hill 
The  joy  of  leaping  waves  upon  the  sea. 

Theodosia  Garrison 

ENVOI 

BELOVED,  till  the  day  break, 

Leave  wide  the  little  door; 
And  bless,  to  lack  and  longing, 

Our  brimming  more-and-more. 

Is  love  a  scanted  portion, 

That  we  should  hoard  thereof?  — 

Oh,  call  unto  the  deserts, 
Beloved  and  my  Love! 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


120  THE  HOMELAND 

OUR  LITTLE  HOUSE 

OUR  little  house  upon  the  hill 

In  winter  time  is  strangely  still ; 

The  roof  tree,  bare  of  leaves,  stands  high, 

A  candelabrum  for  the  sky, 

And  down  below  the  lamplights  glow, 

And  ours  makes  answer  o  'er  the  snow. 

Our  little  house  upon  the  hill 
In  summer  time  strange  voices  fill; 
With  ceaseless  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  birds  that  twitter  in  the  eaves, 
And  all  the  vines  entangled  so 
The  village  lights  no  longer  show. 

Our  little  house  upon  the  hill 
Is  just  the  house  of  Jack  and  Jill, 
And  whether  showing  or  unseen, 
Hid  behind  its  leafy  screen; 
There 's  a  star  that  points  it  out 
When  the  lamp  lights  are  in  doubt. 

Thomas  Walsh 

THE  HOMELAND 

MY  land  was  the  west  land;  my  home  was  on  the  hill. 
I  never  think  of  my  land  but  it  makes  my  heart  to 

thrill; 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  golden 

skies, 
But  old  desire  is  in  my  feet  and  dreams  are  hi  my 

eyes. 


CRADLE  SONG  121 

My  home  crowned  the  high  land;  it   had  a  stately 

grace. 

I  never  think  of  my  land  but  I  see  my  mother's  face; 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  silver  ships 
But  old  delight  is  in  my  heart  and  mirth  is  on  my  lips. 

My  land  was  a  high  land;  my  home  was  near  the  skies. 
I  never  think  of  my  land  but  a  light  is  in  my  eyes; 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  summer 

rain  — 

But  I  am  at  my  mother's  knee,  a  little  lad  again. 

Dana  Burnet 


CRADLE  SONG 


LORD  GABRIEL,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Cheek  lies  heavy  as  a  rose 
And  his  eyelids  close? 

Gabriel,  when  that  hush  may  be, 
This  sweet  hand  all  heedf ully 
I'll  undo  for  thee  alone, 
From  his  mother's  own. 

Then  the  far  blue  highway  paven 
With  the  burning  stars  of  heaven, 
He  shall  gladden  with  the  sweet 
Hasting  of  his  feet :  — 

Feet  so  brightly  bare  and  cool, 
Leaping,  as  from  pool  to  pool; 


122  CRADLE  SONG 

From  a  little  laughing  boy 
Splashing  rainbow  joy ! 

Gabriel,  wilt  thou  understand 
How  to  keep  this  hovering  hand?  — 
Never  shut,  as  in  a  bond, 
From  the  bright  beyond?  — 

Nay,  but  though  it  cling  and  close 
Tightly  as  a  climbing  rose, 

Clasp  it  only  so,  —  aright, 
Lest  his  heart  take  fright. 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tu. 

The  dusk  is  hung  with  blue.) 

ii 

Lord  Michael,  wilt  not  thou  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Heart,  a  shut-in  murmuring  bee, 
Turns  him  unto  thee? 

Wilt  thou  heed  thine  armor  well,  — 
To  take  his  hand  from  Gabriel, 
So  his  radiant  cup  of  dream 
May  not  spill  a  gleam? 

He  will  take  thy  heart  in  thrall, 
Telling  o'er  thy  breastplate,  all 
Colors,  in  his  bubbling  speech, 
With  his  hand  to  each. 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tu. 
Sapphire  is  the  blue, 


CRADLE  SONG  123 

Pearl  and  beryl,  they  are  called, 
Crysoprase  and  emerald, 
Sard  and  amethyst 

Numbered  so,  and  kissed.) 

Ah,  but  find  some  angel-word 
For  thy  sharp,  subduing  sword! 

Yea,  Lord  Michael,  make  no  doubt 
He  will  find  it  out: 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tul 
His  eyes  will  look  at  you.) 

\ 
in 

Last,  a  little  morning  space, 
Lead  him  to  that  leafy  place 

Where  Our  Lady  sits  awake, 
For  all  mothers'  sake. 

Bosomed  with  the  Blessed  One, 
He  shall  mind  her  of  her  Son, 

Once  so  folded  from  all  harms 
In  her  shrining  arms. 

(In  her  veil  of  blue, 
Dormi,  dormi,  tu.) 

So;  —  and  fare  thee  well. 

Softly,  —  Gabriel  .  .  . 
When  the  first  faint  red  shall  come, 
Bid  the  Day-star  lead  him  home, 

For  the  bright  world's  sake, 

To  my  heart,  awake. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


124  BALLAD  OF  A  CHILD 

SLUMBER  SONG 

DROWSILY  come  the  sheep 
From  the  place  where  the  pastures  be, 
By  a  dusty  lane 
To  the  fold  again, 
First  one,  and  then  two,  and  three: 

First  one,  then  two,  by  the  paths  of  sleep 
Drowsily  come  the  sheep. 

Drowsily  come  the  sheep, 
And  the  shepherd  is  singing  low: 
After  eight  comes  nine 
In  the  endless  line, 
They  come,  and  then  in  they  go. 

First  eight,  then  nine,  by  the  paths  of  sleep 
Drowsily  come  the  sheep. 

Drowsily  come  the  sheep 
And  they  pass  through  the  sheepfold  door; 
After  one  comes  two, 
After  one  comes  two, 
Comes  two  and  then  three  and  four. 
First  one,  then  two,  by  the  paths  of  sleep, 
Drowsily  come  the  sheep. 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 


J 


BALLAD  OF  A  CHILD  * 

YEARLY  thrilled  the  plum  tree 
With  the  mother-mood; 
Every  June  the  rose  stock 


1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Quest,  by  John 
G.  Neihardt.    Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


BALLAD  OF  A  CHILD  125 

Bore  her  wonder-child: 
Every  year  the  wheatlands 
Reared  a  golden  brood : 
World  of  praying  Rachaels, 
Heard  and  reconciled! 

"Poet,"  said  the  plum  tree's 
Singing  white  and  green, 
"What  avails  your  mooning, 
Can  you  fashion  plums?" 
"Dreamer,"  crooned  the  wheatland's 
Rippling  vocal  sheen, 
"See  my  golden  children 
Marching  as  with  drums!" 

"By  a  god  begotten," 
Hymned  the  sunning  vine, 
"In  my  lyric  children 
Purple  music  flows ! " 
"Singer,"  breathed  the  rose  bush, 
"Are  they  not  divine?" 
"Have  you  any  daughters 
Mighty  as  a  rose?" 

Happy,  happy  mothers  ! 
Cruel,  cruel  words  ! 
Mine  are  ghostly  children, 
Haunting  all  the  ways; 
Latent  in  the  plum  bloom, 
Calling  through  the  birds, 
Romping  with  the  wheat  brood 
In  their  shadow  plays  I 


126  BALLAD  OF  A  CHILD 

Gotten  out  of  star-glint, 
Mothered  of  the  Moon; 
Nurtured  vnth  the  rose  scent, 
Wild  elusive  throng ! 
Something  of  the  vine's  dream 
Crept  into  a  tune; 
Something  of  the  wheat-drone 
Echoed  in  a  song. 

Once  again  the  white  fires 
Smoked  among  the  plums; 
Once  again  the  world-joy 
Burst  the  crimson  bud; 
Golden-bannered  wheat  broods 
Marched  to  fairy  drums; 
Once  again  the  vineyard 
Felt  the  Bacchic  blood. 

"Lo,  he  comes,  —  the  dreamer"  — 
Crooned  the  whitened  boughs, 
"Quick  with  vernal  love-fires  — 
Oh,  at  last  he  knows ! 
See  the  bursting  plum  bloom 
There  above  his  brows!  " 
"Boaster!"  breathed  the  rose  bush, 
"Tis  a  budding  rose!" 

Droned  the  glinting  acres, 
"In  his  soul,  mayhap, 
Something  like  a  wheat-dream 
Quickens  into  shape!" 
Sang  the  sunning  vineyard, 
"Lo,  the  lyric  sap 


AMBITION  127 


Sets  his  heart  a-throbbing 
Like  a  purple  grape!" 

Mother  of  the  wheatlands, 
Mother  of  the  plums, 
Mother  of  the  vineyard  — 
All  that  loves  and  grows  — 
Such  a  living  glory 
To  the  dreamer  comes, 
Mystic  as  a  wheat-song, 
Mighty  as  a  rose ! 

Star-glint,  moon-glow, 
Gathered  in  a  mesh  ! 
Spring-hope,  white  fire 
By  a  kiss  beguiled ! 
Something  of  the  world-joy 
Dreaming  into  flesh  ! 
Bird-song,  vine-thrill 
Quickened  to  a  child ! 

John  G.  Neihardt 

AMBITION 

RENTON  and  Deborah,  Michael  and  Rose, 
These  are  fine  children  as  all  the  world  knows, 
But  into  my  arms  in  my  dreams  every  night 
Come  Peter  and  Christopher,  Faith  and  Delight. 

Kenton  is  tropical,  Rose  is  pure  white, 
Deborah  shines  like  a  star  in  the  night; 
Michael's  round  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the  sea, 
And  nothing  on  earth  could  be  dearer  to  me. 


128    THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 

But  where  is  the  baby  with  Faith  can  compare? 
What  is  the  colour  of  Peterkin's  hair? 
Who  can  make  Christopher  clear  to  my  sight, 
Or  show  me  the  eyes  of  my  daughter  Delight? 

When  people  inquire  I  always  just  state: 
"I  have  four  nice  children  and  hope  to  have  eight. 
Though  the  first  four  are  pretty  and  certain  to  please, 
Who  knows  but  the  rest  may  be  nicer  than  these?" 

Aline  Kilmer 

THE  GIFT 

LET  others  give  you  wealth  and  love, 
And  guard  you  while  you  live; 

I  cannot  set  my  gift  above 
The  gifts  that  others  give. 

And  yet  the  gift  I  give  is  good : 

In  one  man's  eyes  to  see 
The  worship  of  your  maidenhood 

While  children  climb  your  knee. 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 


THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 

I  AM  all  alone  in  the  room. 
The  evening  stretches  before  me 
Like  a  road  all  delicate  gloom 
Till  it  reaches  the  midnight's  gate. 
And  I  hear  his  step  on  the  path, 
And  his  questioning  whistle,  low 
At  the  door  as  I  hurry  to  meet  him. 


THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS     129 

He  will  ask,  "Are  the  doors  all  locked? 
Is  the  fire  made  safe  on  the  hearth? 
And  she  —  is  she  sound  asleep?" 

I  shall  say,  "Yes,  the  doors  are  locked, 

And  the  ashes  are  white  as  the  frost: 

Only  a  few  red  eyes 

To  stare  at  the  empty  room. 

And  she  is  all  sound  asleep, 

Up  there  where  the  silence  sings, 

And  the  curtains  stir  in  the  cold." 

He  will  ask,  "And  what  did  you  do 
While  I  have  been  gone  so  long? 
So  long!  Four  hours  or  five!" 

I  shall  say,  "There  was  nothing  I  did.  — 

I  mended  that  sleeve  of  your  coat. 

And  I  made  her  a  little  white  hood 

Of  the  furry  pieces  I  found 

Up  in  the  garret  to-day. 

She  shall  wear  it  to  play  in  the  snow, 

Like  a  little  white  bear,  —  and  shall  laugh, 

And  tumble,  and  crystals  of  stars 

Shall  shine  on  her  cheeks  and  hair. 

—  It  was  nothing  I  did.  —  I  thought 

You  would  never  come  home  again!" 

Then  he  will  laugh  out,  low, 
Being  fond  of  my  folly,  perhaps; 
And  softly  and  hand  in  hand 
We  shall  creep  upstairs  in  the  dusk 
To  look  at  her,  lying  asleep : 
Our  little  gold  bird  in  her  nest: 


130    THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 

The  wonderful  bird  who  flew  in 
At  the  window  our  Life  flung  wide. 
(How  should  we  have  chosen  her, 
Had  we  seen  them  all  in  a  row, 
The  unborn  vague  little  souls, 
All  wings  and  tremulous  hands? 
How  should  we  have  chosen  her, 
Made  like  a  star  to  shine, 
Made  like  a  bird  to  fly, 
Out  of  a  drop  of  our  blood, 
And  earth,  and  fire,  and  God?) 

Then  we  shall  go  to  sleep, 
Glad.  — 

O  God,  did  you  know 
When  you  moulded  men  out  of  clay, 
Urging  them  up  and  up 
Through  the  endless  circles  of  change, 
Travail  and  turmoil  and  death, 
Many  would  curse  you  down, 
Many  would  live  all  gray 
With  their  faces  flat  like  a  mask : 
But  there  would  be  some,  0  God, 
Crying  to  you  each  night, 
"I  am  so  glad!  so  glad! 
I  am  so  rich  and  gay! 
How  shall  I  thank  you,  God?" 

Was  that  one  thing  you  knew 

When  you  smiled  and  found  it  was  good : 

The  curious  teeming  earth 

That  grew  like  a  child  at  your  hand? 

Ah,  you  might  smile,  for  that!  — 


THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS     131 

—  I  am  all  alone  in  the  room. 
The  books  and  the  pictures  peer, 
Dumb  old  friends,  from  the  dark. 
The  wind  goes  high  on  the  hills, 
And  my  fire  leaps  out,  being  proud. 
The  terrier,  down  on  the  hearth, 
Twitches  and  barks  in  his  sleep, 
Soft  little  foolish  barks, 
More  like  a  dream  than  a  dog  .  .  . 

I  will  mend  the  sleeve  of  that  coat, 
All  ragged,  —  and  make  her  the  hood 
Furry,  and  white,  for  the  snow. 
She  shall  tumble  and  laugh  .  .  . 

Oh,  I  think 

Though  a  thousand  rivers  of  grief 
Flood  over  my  head,  —  though  a  hill 
Of  horror  lie  on  my  breast,  — 
Something  will  sing,  "Be  glad! 
You  have  had  all  your  heart's  desire : 
The  unknown  things  that  you  asked 
When  you  lay  awake  in  the  nights, 
Alone,  and  searching  the  dark 
For  the  secret  wonder  of  life. 
You  have  had  them  (can  you  forget?) : 
The  ancient  beautiful  things!"  .  .  . 

How  long  he  is  gone.  And  yet 
It  is  only  an  hour  or  two.  .  .  . 

Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  My  eyes 
Are  troubled  with  tears. 

Did  you  know, 


132  PREVISION 


O  God,  they  would  be  like  this, 

Your  ancient  beautiful  things? 

Are  there  more  ?  Are  there  more,  —  out  there  ?  — 

0  God,  are  there  always  more  ? 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 

MATER  DOLOROSA  * 

O  CLINGING  hands,  and  eyes  where  sleep  has  set 
Her  seal  of  peace,  go  not  from  me  so  soon. 

0  little  feet,  take  not  the  pathway  yet, 
The  dust  of  other  feet  with  tears  is  wet, 
And  sorrow  wanders  there  with  slow  regret; 

\l        O  eager  feet,  take  not  the  path  so  soon. 

Take  it  not  yet,  for  death  is  at  the  end, 

And  kingly  death  will  wait  until  you  come. 

Full  soon  the  feet  of  youth  will  turn  the  bend, 

The  eyes  will  see  where  followed  footsteps  wend. 

Go  not  so  soon,  though  death  be  found  a  friend; 
For  kingly  death  will  wait  until  you  come. 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

PREVISION 

I  KNOW  you  are  too  dear  to  stay; 
i     You  are  so  exquisitely  sweet: 
My  lonely  house  will  thrill  some  day 
To  echoes  of  your  eager  feet. 

I  hold  your  words  within  my  heart, 

So  few,  so  infinitely  dear; 
Watching  your  fluttering  hands  I  start 

At  the  corroding  touch  of  fear. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Story  of  Eleusis, 
by  Louis  V.  Ledoux.    Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


A  WIND  ROSE  IN  THE  NIGHT        133 

A  faint,  unearthly  music  rings 

From  you  to  Heaven  —  it  is  not  far! 

A  mist  about  your  beauty  clings 
Like  a  thin  cloud  before  a  star. 

My  heart  shall  keep  the  child  I  knew, 
When  you  are  really  gone  from  me, 

And  spend  its  life  remembering  you 
As  shells  remember  the  lost  sea. 

A  line  Kilmer 

"A  WIND  ROSE  IN  THE  NIGHT" 

A  WIND  rose  in  the  night, 

(She  had  always  feared  it  so !) 
Sorrow  plucked  at  my  heart 

And  I  could  not  help  but  go. 

Softly  I  went  and  stood 

By  her  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
Dazed  with  grief  I  watched 

The  candles  flaring  and  tall. 

The  wind  was  wailing  aloud: 

I  thought  how  she  would  have  cried 

For  my  warm  familiar  arms 
And  the  sense  of  me  by  her  side. 

The  candles  flickered  and  leapt, 
The  shadows  jumped  on  the  wall. 

She  lay  before  me  small  and  still 
And  did  not  care  at  all. 

Aline  Kilmer 


134  THE  FIRST  FOOD 

HOW  MUCH  OF  GODHOOD 

How  much  of  Godhood  did  it  take  — 
What  purging  epochs  had  to  pass, 

Ere  I  was  fit  for  leaf  and  lake 
And  worthy  of  the  patient  grass? 

What  mighty  travails  must  have  been, 
What  ages  must  have  moulded  me, 

Ere  I  was  raised  and  made  akin 
To  dawn,  the  daisy  and  the  sea. 

In  what  great  struggles  was  I  felled, 
In  what  old  lives  I  labored  long, 

Ere  I  was  given, a  world  that  held 
A  meadow,  butterflies  and  Song? 

But  oh,  what  cleansings  and  what  fears, 
What  countless  raisings  from  the  dead, 

Ere  I  could  see  Her,  touched  with  tears, 
Pillow  the  little  weary  head. 

Louis  Untermeyer 

THE  FIRST  FOOD 

MOTHER,  in  some  sad  evening  long  ago, 

From  thy  young  breast  my  groping  lips  were  taken, 
Their  hunger  stilled,  so  soon  again  to  waken, 

But  nevermore  that  holy  food  to  know. 

Ah!  nevermore!  for  all  the  child  might  crave! 

Ah!  nevermore!  through  years  unkind  and  dreary! 

Often  of  other  fare  my  lips  are  weary, 
Unwearied  once  of  what  thy  bosom  gave. 


THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN        135 

(Poor  wordless  mouth  that  could  not  speak  thy  name! 
At  what  unhappy  revels  has  it  eaten 
The  viands  that  no  memory  can  sweeten,  — 

The  banquet  found  eternally  the  same!) 

Then  fell  a  shadow  first  on  thee  and  me, 

And  tendrils  broke  that  held  us  two  how  dearly! 
Once  infinitely  thine,  then  hourly,  yearly, 

Less  thine,  as  less  the  worthy  thine  to  be. 

(0  mouth  that  yet  should  kiss  the  mouth  of  Sin! 

Were  lies  so  sweet,  now  bitter  to  remember? 

Slow  sinks  the  flame  unfaithful  to  an  ember; 
New  beauty  fades  and  passion's  wine  is  thin.) 

How  poor  an  end  of  that  solicitude 

And  all  the  love  I  had  not  from  another! 
Peace  to  thine  unforgetting  heart,  O  Mother, 

Who  gav'st  the  dear  and  unremembered  food ! 

George  Sterling 


THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN 

i 

ORDER  is  a  lovely  thing; 
On  disarray  it  lays  its  wing, 
Teaching  simplicity  to  sing. 
It  has  a  meek  and  lowly  grace, 
Quiet  as  a  nun's  face. 
Lo  —  I  will  have  thee  in  this  place ! 
Tranquil  well  of  deep  delight, 
Transparent  as  the  water,  bright  — 


136        THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN 

All  things  that  shine  through  thee  appear 

As  stones  through  water,  sweetly  clear. 

Thou  clarity, 

That  with  angelic  charity 

Revealest  beauty  where  thou  art, 

Spread  thyself  like  a  clean  pool. 

Then  all  the  things  that  in  thee  are 

Shall  seem  more  spiritual  and  fair, 

Reflections  from  serener  air  — 

Sunken  shapes  of  many  a  star 

In  the  high  heavens  set  afar. 

ii 

Ye  stolid,  homely,  visible  things, 
Above  you  all  brood  glorious  wings 
Of  your  deep  entities,  set  high, 
Like  slow  moons  in  a  hidden  sky. 
But  you,  their  likenesses,  are  spent 
Upon  another  element. 
Truly  ye  are  but  seemings  — 
The  shadowy  cast-off  gleamings 
Of  bright  solidities.  Ye  seem 
Soft  as  water,  vague  as  dream; 
Image,  cast  in  a  shifting  stream. 

in 

What  are  ye  ? 
I  know  not. 

Brazen  pan  and  iron  pot, 
Yellow  brick  and  grey  flag-stone 
That  my  feet  have  trod  upon  — 
Ye  seem  to  me 
Vessels  of  bright  mystery. 


THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN        137 

For  ye  do  bear  a  shape,  and  so 
Though  ye  were  made  by  man,  I  know 
An  inner  Spirit  also  made 
And  ye  his  breathings  have  obeyed. 

IV 

Shape  the  strong  and  awful  Spirit, 

Laid  his  ancient  hand  on  you. 

He  waste  chaos  doth  inherit; 

He  can  alter  and  subdue. 

Verily,  he  doth  lift  up 

Matter,  like  a  sacred  cup. 

Into  deep  substance  he  reached,  and  lo 

Where  ye  were  not,  ye  were;  and  so 

Out  of  useless  nothing,  ye 

Groaned  and  laughed  and  came  to  be. 

And  I  use  you,  as  I  can, 

Wonderful  uses,  made  for  man, 

Iron  pot  and  brazen  pan. 

v 

What  are  ye  ? 

I  know  not; 

Nor  what  I  really  do 

When  I  move  and  govern  you. 

There  is  no  small  work  unto  God. 

He  requires  of  us  greatness; 

Of  his  least  creature 

A  high  angelic  nature, 

Stature  superb  and  bright  completeness. 

He  sets  to  us  no  humble  duty. 

Each  act  that  he  would  have  us  do 

Is  haloed  round  with  strangest  beauty. 


138        THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN 

Terrific  deeds  and  cosmic  tasks 

Of  his  plainest  child  he  asks. 

When  I  polish  the  brazen  pan 

I  hear  a  creature  laugh  afar 

In  the  gardens  of  a  star, 

And  from  his  burning  presence  run 

Flaming  wheels  of  many  a  sun. 

Whoever  makes  a  thing  more  bright, 

He  is  an  angel  of  all  light. 

When  I  cleanse  this  earthen  floor 

My  spirit  leaps  to  see 

Bright  garments  trailing  over  it. 

Wonderful  lustres  cover  it, 

A  cleanness  made  by  me. 

Purger  of  all  men's  thoughts  and  ways, 

With  labor  do  I  sound  Thy  praise, 

My  work  is  done  for  Thee. 

Whoever  makes  a  thing  more  bright, 

He  is  an  angel  of  all  light. 

Therefore  let  me  spread  abroad 

The  beautiful  cleanness  of  my  God. 


VI 

One  time  in  the  cool  of  dawn 
Angels  came  and  worked  with  me. 
The  air  was  soft  with  many  a  wing. 
They  laughed  amid  my  solitude 
And  cast  bright  looks  on  everything. 
Sweetly  of  me  did  they  ask 
That  they  might  do  my  common  task. 
And  all  were  beautiful  —  but  one 
With  garments  whiter  than  the  sun 


A  SAINT'S  HOURS 


139 


Had  such  a  face 

Of  deep,  remembered  grace, 

That  when  I  saw  I  cried  —  "Thou  art 

The  great  Blood-Brother  of  my  heart. 

Where  have  I  seen  thee?"  —  And  he  said, 

"When  we  are  dancing  'round  God's  throne, 

How  often  thou  art  there. 

Beauties  from  thy  hands  have  flown 

Like  white  doves  wheeling  in  mid-air. 

Nay  —  thy  soul  remembers  not? 

Work  on,  and  cleanse  thy  iron  pot." 

VII 

What  are  we?  I  know  not. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


A  SAINT'S  HOURS 

IN  the  still  cold  before  the  sun 
Her  Matins         Her  brothers  and  her  sisters  small 

She  woke,  and  washed  and  dressed  each 
one. 

And  through  the  morning  hours  all 
Prime  Singing  above  her  broom  she  stood 

And  swept  the  house  from  hall  to  hall. 

Then  out  she  ran  with  tidings  good 
Tierce  Across  the  field  and  down  the  lane, 

To  share  them  with  the  neighborhood. 

Four  miles  she  walked,  and  home  again, 
Sexts  To  sit  through  half  the  afternoon 

And  hear  a  feeble  crone  complain. 


140 


A  LADY 


But  when  she  saw  the  frosty  moon 
Nones  And  lakes  of  shadow  on  the  hill, 

Her  maiden  dreams  grew  bright  as  noon. 

She  threw  her  pitying  apron  frill 
Vespers  Over  a  little  trembling  mouse 

When  the  sleek  cat  yawned  on  the  sill. 

In  the  late  hours  and  drowsy  house, 
Evensong         At  last,  too  tired,  beside  her  bed 

She  fell  asleep  —  her  prayers  half  said. 
Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 


A  LADY i 

You  are  beautiful  and  faded 

Like  an  old  opera  tune 

Played  upon  a  harpsichord; 

Or  like  the  sun-flooded  silks 

Of  an  eighteenth-century  boudoir. 

In  your  eyes 

Smoulder  the  fallen  roses  of  out-lived  minutes, 

And  the  perfume  of  your  soul 

Is  vague  and  suffusing, 

With  the  pungence  of  sealed  spice-jars. 

Your  half-tones  delight  me, 

And  I  grow  mad  with  gazing 

At  your  blent  colours. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Sword  Blades  and 
Poppy  Seed,  by  Amy  Lowell.  Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Macmillan  Com 
pany. 


THE  CHILD  IN  ME  141 

My  vigour  is  a  new-minted  penny, 
Which  I  cast  at  your  feet. 
Gather  it  up  from  the  dust, 
That  its  sparkle  may  amuse  you. 

Amy  Lowell 


THE  CHILD  IN  ME 

SHE  follows  me  about  my  House  of  Life 
(This  happy  little  ghost  of  my  dead  Youth!) 
She  has  no  part  in  Time's  relentless  strife 
She  keeps  her  old  simplicity  and  truth  — 
And  laughs  at  grim  Mortality, 
This  deathless  Child  that  stays  with  me  — 
(This  happy  little  ghost  of  my  dead  Youth !) 

My  House  of  Life  is  weather-stained  with  years  — 

(0  Child  in  Me,  I  wonder  why  you  stay.) 

Its  windows  are  bedimmed  with  rain  of  tears, 

The  walls  have  lost  their  rose,  its  thatch  is  gray. 

One  after  one  its  guests  depart, 

So  dull  a  host  is  my  old  heart. 

(0  Child  in  Me,  I  wonder  why  you  stay!) 

For  jealous  Age,  whose  face  I  would  forget, 

Pulls  the  bright  flowers  you  bring  me  from  my  hair 

And  powders  it  with  snow;  and  yet  —  and  yet 

I  love  your  dancing  feet  and  jocund  air. 

I  have  no  taste  for  caps  of  lace 

To  tie  about  my  faded  face  — 

I  love  to  wear  your  flowers  in  my  hair. 


142  THE  SON 


O  Child  in  Me,  leave  not  my  House  of  Clay 
Until  we  pass  together  through  the  Door, 
When  lights  are  out,  and  Life  has  gone  away 
And  we  depart  to  come  again  no  more. 
We  comrades  who  have  travelled  far 
Will  hail  the  Twilight  and  the  Star, 
And  smiling,  pass  together  through  the  Door! 

May  Riley  Smith 


THE  SON 

I  HEARD  an  old  farm-wife, 

Selling  some  barley, 
Mingle  her  life  with  life 

And  the  name  "Charley." 

Saying,  "The  crop's  all  in, 

We're  about  through  now; 
Long  nights  will  soon  begin, 

We  're  just  us  two  now. 

Twelve  bushels  at  sixty  cents, 

It's  all  I  carried  — 
He  sickened  making  fence; 

He  was  to  be  married  — 

It  feels  like  frost  was  near  — 

His  hair  was  curly. 
The  spring  was  late  that  year, 

But  the  harvest  early." 

Ridgely  Torrence 


MUY  VIEJA  MEXICANA  143 

MUY  VIEJA  MEXICANA 

I  'VE  seen  her  pass  with  eyes  upon  the  road  — 

An  old  bent  woman  in  a  bronze-black  shawl, 

With  skin  as  dried  and  wrinkled  as  a  mummy's, 

As  brown  as  a  cigar-box,  and  her  voice 

Like  the  low  vibrant  strings  of  a  guitar. 

And  I  have  fancied  from  the  girls  about 

What  she  was  at  their  age,  what  they  will  be 

When  they  are  old  as  she.  But  now  she  sits 

And  smokes  away  each  night  till  dawn  comes  round, 

Thinking,  beside  the  piiions'  flame,  of  days 

Long  past  and  gone,  when  she  was  young  —  content 

To  be  no  longer  young,  her  epic  done : 

For  a  woman  has  work  and  much  to  do, 

And  it's  good  at  the  last  to  know  it's  through, 

And  still  have  time  to  sit  alone, 

To  have  some  time  you  can  call  your  own. 

It's  good  at  the  last  to  know  your  mind 

And  travel  the  paths  that  you  traveled  blind, 

To  see  each  turn  and  even  make 

Trips  in  the  byways  you  did  not  take  — 

But  that,  por  Dios,  is  over  and  done, 

It's  pleasanter  now  in  the  way  we've  come; 

It's  good  to  smoke  and  none  to  say 

What's  to  be  done  on  the  coming  day, 

No  mouths  to  feed  or  coat  to  mend, 

And  none  to  call  till  the  last  long  end. 

Though  one  have  sons  and  friends  of  one's  own, 

It's  better  at  last  to  live  alone. 

For  a  man  must  think  of  food  to  buy, 

And  a  woman's  thoughts  may  be  wild  and  high; 


144          HROLF'S  THRALL,  HIS  SONG 

But  when  she  is  young  she  must  curb  her  pride, 
And  her  heart  is  tamed  for  the  child  at  her  side. 
But  when  she  is  old  her  thoughts  may  go 
Wherever  they  will,  and  none  to  know. 
And  night  is  the  time  to  think  and  dream, 
And  not  to  get  up  with  the  dawn's  first  gleam; 
Night  is  the  time  to  laugh  or  weep, 
And  when  dawn  comes  it  is  time  to  sleep  .  .  . 

When  it 's  all  over  and  there 's  none  to  care, 

I  mean  to  be  like  her  and  take  my  share 

Of  comfort  when  the  long  day 's  done, 

And  smoke  away  the  nights,  and  see  the  sun 

Far  off,  a  shrivelled  orange  in  a  sky  gone  black, 

Through  eyes  that  open  inward  and  look  back. 

Alice  Corbin 

HROLF'S  THRALL,  HIS  SONG 

THERE  be  five  things  to  a  man's  desire: 
Kine  flesh,  roof-tree,  his  own  fire, 
Clean  cup  of  sweet  wine  from  goat's  hide, 
And  through  dark  night  one  to  lie  beside. 

Four  things  poor  and  homely  be : 
Hearth-fire,  white  cheese,  own  roof -tree, 
True  mead  slow  brewed  with  brown  malt; 
But  a  good  woman  is  savour  and  salt. 

Plow,  shove  deep  through  gray  loam; 
Hack,  sword,  hack  for  straw-thatch  home; 
Guard,  buckler,  guard  both  beast  and  human  — 
God,  send  true  man  his  true  woman! 

Willard  Wattles 


OLD  KING  COLE  145 

THE  INTERPRETER 

IN  the  very  early  morning  when  the  light  was  low 
She  got  all  together  and  she  went  like  snow, 
Like  snow  in  the  springtime  on  a  sunny  hill, 
And  we  were  only  frightened  and  can't  think  still. 

We  can't  think  quite  that  the  katydids  and  frogs 
And  the  little  crying  chickens  and  the  little  grunting 

hogs, 

And  the  other  living  things  that  she  spoke  for  to  us 
Have  nothing  more  to  tell  her  since  it  happened  thus. 

She  never  is  around  for  any  one  to  touch, 
But  of  ecstasy  and  longing  she  too  knew  much, 
And  always  when  any  one  has  time  to  call  his  own 
She  will  come  and  be  beside  him  as  quiet  as  a  stone. 

Orrick  Johns 


OLD  KING  COLE  * 

IN  Tilbury  Town  did  Old  King  Cole 
A  wise  old  age  anticipate, 
Desiring,  with  his  pipe  and  bowl, 
No  Khan's  extravagant  estate. 
No  crown  annoyed  his  honest  head, 
No  fiddlers  three  were  called  or  needed; 
For  two  disastrous  heirs  instead 
Made  music  more  than  ever  three  did. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Man  Against 
the  Sky,  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Mac- 
millan  Company. 


146  OLD  KING  COLE 

Bereft  of  her  with  whom  his  life 
Was  harmony  without  a  flaw, 
He  took  no  other  for  a  wife, 
Nor  sighed  for  any  that  he  saw; 
And  if  he  doubted  his  two  sons, 
And  heirs,  Alexis  and  Evander, 
He  might  have  been  as  doubtful  once 
Of  Robert  Burns  and  Alexander. 

Alexis,  in  his  early  youth, 

Began  to  steal  —  from  old  and  young. 

Likewise  Evander,  and  the  truth 

Was  like  a  bad  taste  on  his  tongue. 

Born  thieves  and  liars,  their  affair 

Seemed  only  to  be  tarred  with  evil  — 

The  most  insufferable  pair 

Of  scamps  that  ever  cheered  the  devil. 

The  world  went  on,  their  fame  went  on, 
And  they  went  on  —  from  bad  to  worse; 
Till,  goaded  hot  with  nothing  done, 
And  each  accoutred  with  a  curse, 
The  friends  of  Old  King  Cole,  by  twos, 
And  fours,  and  sevens,  and  elevens, 
Pronounced  unalterable  views 
Of  doings  that  were  not  of  heaven's. 

And  having  learned  again  whereby 

Their  baleful  zeal  had  come  about, 

King  Cole  met  many  a  wrathful  eye 

So  kindly  that  its  wrath  went  out  — 

Or  partly  out.  Say  what  they  would, 

He  seemed  the  more  to  court  their  candor; 


OLD  KING  COLE  147 


But  never  told  what  kind  of  good 
Was  in  Alexis  and  Evander. 

And  Old  King  Cole,  with  many  a  puff 

That  haloed  his  urbanity, 

Would  smoke  till  he  had  smoked  enough, 

And  listen  most  attentively. 

He  beamed  as  with  an  inward  light 

That  had  the  Lord's  assurance  in  it; 

And  once  a  man  was  there  all  night, 

Expecting  something  every  minute. 

But  whether  from  too  little  thought, 
Or  too  much  fealty  to  the  bowl, 
A  dim  reward  was  all  he  got 
For  sitting  up  with  Old  King  Cole. 
"Though  mine,"  the  father  mused  aloud, 
"Are  not  the  sons  I  would  have  chosen, 
Shall  I,  less  evilly  endowed, 
By  their  infirmity  be  frozen? 

"They'll  have  a  bad  end,  I'll  agree, 

But  I  was  never  born  to  groan; 

For  I  can  see  what  I  can  see, 

And  I  'm  accordingly  alone. 

With  open  heart  and  open  door, 

I  love  my  friends,  I  like  my  neighbors; 

But  if  I  try  to  tell  you  more, 

Your  doubts  will  overmatch  my  labors. 

"This  pipe  would  never  make  me  calm, 
This  bowl  my  grief  would  never  drown. 
For  grief  like  mine  there  is  no  balm 
In  Gilead,  or  in  Tilbury  Town. 


148  SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY 

And  if  I  see  what  I  can  see, 
I  know  not  any  way  to  blind  it; 
Nor  more  if  any  way  may  be 
For  you  to  grope  or  fly  to  find  it. 

"  There  may  be  room  for  ruin  yet, 
And  ashes  for  a  wasted  love; 
Or,  like  One  whom  you  may  forget, 
I  may  have  meat  you  know  not  of. 
And  if  I  'd  rather  live  than  weep 
Meanwhile,  do  you  find  that  surprising? 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  the  man's  asleep! 
That's  good.  The  sun  will  soon  be  rising." 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY  * 

WASHINGTON  McNEELY 

RICH,  honored  by  my  fellow  citizens, 

The  father  of  many  children,  born  of  a  noble  mother, 

All  raised  there 

In  the  great  mansion-house,  at  the  edge  of  town. 

Note  the  cedar  tree  on  the  lawn! 

I  sent  all  the  boys  to  Ann  Arbor,  all  of  the  girls  to 

Rockford, 
The  while  my  life  went  on,  getting  more  riches  and 

honors  — 

Resting  under  my  cedar  tree  at  evening. 
The  years  went  on. 
I  sent  the  girls  to  Europe; 
I  dowered  them  when  married. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the. publishers,  from  Spoon  River  Anthology, 
by  Edgar  Lee  Masters.  Copyright,  1915,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY  149 

I  gave  the  boys  money  to  start  in  business. 

They  were  strong  children,  promising  as  apples 

Before  the  bitten  places  show. 

Bat  John  fled  the  country  in  disgrace. 

Jenny  died  in  child-birth  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

Harry  killed  himself  after  a  debauch, 

Susan  was  divorced  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

Paul  was  invalided  from  over  study, 

Mary  became  a  recluse  at  home  for  love  of  a  man  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

All  were  gone,  or  broken-winged  or  devoured  by  life  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

My  mate,  the  mother  of  them,  was  taken  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree, 

Till  ninety  years  were  tolled. 

O  maternal  Earth,  which  rocks  the  fallen  leaf  to  sleep! 

HARMON  WHITNEY 

OUT  of  the  lights  and  roar  of  cities, 

Drifting  down  like  a  spark  in  Spoon  River, 

Burnt  out  with  the  fire  of  drink,  and  broken, 

The  paramour  of  a  woman  I  took  in  self -contempt, 

But  to  hide  a  wounded  pride  as  well. 

To  be  judged  and  loathed  by  a  village  of  little  minds  — 

I,  gifted  with  tongues  and  wisdom, 

Sunk  here  to  the  dust  of  the  justice  court, 

A  picker  of  rags  in  the  rubbage  of  spites  and  wrongs,  — 

I,  whom  fortune  smiled  on !  I  in  a  village, 

Spouting  to  gaping  yokels  pages  of  verse, 

Out  of  the  lore  of  golden  years, 

Or  raising  a  laugh  with  a  flash  of  filthy  wit 


150          SPOON  HIVER  ANTHOLOGY 

When  they  brought  the  drinks  to  kindle  my  dying 

mind. 

To  be  judged  by  you, 
The  soul  of  me  hidden  from  you, 
With  its  wound  gangrened 
By  love  for  a  wife  who  made  the  wound, 
With  her  cold  white  bosom,  treasonous,  pure  and  hard, 
Relentless  to  the  last,  when  the  touch  of  her  hand 
At  any  time,  might  have  cured  me  of  the  typhus, 
Caught  in  the  jungle  of  life  where  many  are  lost. 
And  only  to  think  that  my  soul  could  not  react, 
As  Bryon's  did,  in  song,  in  something  noble, 
But  turned  on  itself  like  a  tortured  snake  — 
Judge  me  this  way,  O  world! 

THOMAS    TREVELYAN 

READING  in  Ovid  the  sorrowful  story  of  Itys, 

Son  of  the  love  of  Tereus  and  Procne,  slain 

For  the  guilty  passion  of  Tereus  for  Philomela, 

The  flesh  of  him  served  to  Tereus  by  Procne, 

And  the  wrath  of  Tereus,  the  murderess  pursuing 

Till  the  gods  made  Philomela  a  nightingale, 

Lute  of  the  rising  moon,  and  Procne  a  swallow! 

Oh  livers  and  artists  of  Hellas  centuries  gone, 

Sealing  in  little  thuribles  dreams  and  wisdom, 

Incense  beyond  all  price,  forever  fragrant, 

A  breath  whereof  makes  clear  the  eyes  of  the  soul! 

How  I  inhaled  its  sweetness  here  in  Spoon  River! 

The  thurible  opening  when  I  had  lived  and  learned 

How  all  of  us  kill  the  children  of  love,  and  all  of  us, 

Knowing  not  what  we  do,  devour  their  flesh; 

And  all  of  us  change  to  singers,  although  it  be 

But  once  in  our  lives,  or  change  —  alas  —  to  swallows, 

To  twitter  amid  cold  winds  and  falling  leaves ! 


SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY  151 

ALEXANDER   THROCKMORTON 

IN  youth  my  wings  were  strong  and  tireless, 

But  I  did  not  know  the  mountains. 

In  age  I  knew  the  mountains 

But  my  weary  wings  could  not  follow  my  vision  — 

Genius  is  wisdom  and  youth. 

RUTHERFORD   MCDOWELL 

THEY  brought  me  ambrotypes 

Of  the  old  pioneers  to  enlarge. 

And  sometimes  one  sat  for  me  — 

Some  one  who  was  in  being 

When  giant  hands  from  the  womb  of  the  world 

Tore  the  republic. 

What  was  it  in  their  eyes?  — 

For  I  could  never  fathom 

That  mystical  pathos  of  drooped  eyelids, 

And  the  serene  sorrow  of  their  eyes. 

It  was  like  a  pool  of  water, 

Amid  oak  trees  at  the  edge  of  a  forest, 

Where  the  leaves  fall, 

As  you  hear  the  crow  of  a  cock 

Where  the  third  generation  lives,  and  the  strong 

men 

From  a  far-off  farm-house,  seen  near  the  hills 
And  the  strong  women  are  gone  and  forgotten. 
And  these  grand-children  and  great  grand-children 
Of  the  pioneers ! 

Truly  did  my  camera  record  their  faces,  too, 
With  so  much  of  the  old  strength  gone, 
And  the  old  faith  gone, 
And  the  old  mastery  of  life  gone, 
And  the  old  courage  gone, 


152  SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY 

Which  labors  and  loves  and  suffers  and  sings 
Under  the  sun! 

WILLIAM   H.    HERNDON 

THERE  by  the  window  in  the  old  house 

Perched  on  the  bluff,  overlooking  miles  of  valley, 

My  days  of  labor  closed,  sitting  out  life's  decline, 

Day  by  day  did  I  look  in  my  memory, 

As  one  who  gazes  in  an  enchantress'  crystal  globe, 

And  I  saw  the  figures  of  the  past, 

As  if  in  a  pageant  glassed  by  a  shining  dream, 

Move  through  the  incredible  sphere  of  time. 

And  I  saw  a  man  arise  from  the  soil   like  a  fabled 

giant 

And  throw  himself  over  a  deathless  destiny, 
Master  of  great  armies,  head  of  the  republic, 
Bringing  together  into  a  dithyramb  of  recreative  song 
The  epic  hopes  of  a  people; 
At  the  same  time  Vulcan  of  sovereign  fires, 
Where  imperishable  shields  and  swords  were  beaten 

out 

From  spirits  tempered  in  heaven. 
Look  in  the  crystal !  See  how  he  hastens  on 
To  the  place  where  his  path  comes  up  to  the  path 
Of  a  child  of  Plutarch  and  Shakespeare. 
O  Lincoln,  actor  indeed,  playing  well  your  part, 
And  Booth,  who  strode  in  a  mimic  play  within  the 

play, 

Often  and  often  I  saw  you, 

As  the  cawing  crows  winged  their  way  to  the  wood 
Over  my  house-top  at  solemn  sunsets, 
There  by  my  window, 
Alone. 


LINCOLN  153 


ANNE   RUTLEDGE 

OUT  of  me  unworthy  and  unknown 

The  vibrations  of  deathless  music : 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all." 

Out  of  me  the  forgiveness  of  millions  toward  millions, 

And  the  beneficent  face  of  a  nation 

Shining  with  justice  and  truth. 

I  am  Anne  Rutledge  who  sleep  beneath  these  weeds, 

Beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 

Wedded  to  him,  not  through  union, 

But  through  separation. 

Bloom  forever,  0  Republic, 

From  the  dust  of  my  bosom ! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

LINCOLN 

i 

LIKE  a  gaunt,  scraggly  pine 

Which  lifts  its  head  above  the  mournful  sandhills; 
And  patiently,  through  dull  years  of  bitter  silence, 
Untended  and  uncared  for,  starts  to  grow. 

Ungainly,  labouring,  huge, 

The  wind  of  the  north  has  twisted  and  gnarled  its 
branches; 

Yet  in  the  heat  of  midsummer  days,  when  thunder 
clouds  ring  the  horizon, 

A  nation  of  men  shall  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

And  it  shall  protect  them  all, 

Hold  everyone  safe  there,  watching  aloof  in  silence; 

Until  at  last  one  mad  stray  bolt  from  the  zenith 

Shall  strike  it  in  an  instant  down  to  earth. 


154  LINCOLN 


ii 

There  was  a  darkness  in  this  man;  an  immense  and 
hollow  darkness, 

Of  which  we  may  not  speak,  nor  share  with  him,  nor 
enter; 

A  darkness  through  which  strong  roots  stretched  down 
wards  into  the  earth 

Towards  old  things: 

Towards  the  herdman-kings  who  walked  the  earth 

and  spoke  with  God, 
Towards  the  wanderers  who  sought  for  they  knew  not 

what,  and  found  their  goal  at  last; 
Towards  the  men  who  waited,  only  waited  patiently 

when  all  seemed  lost, 
Many  bitter  winters  of  defeat; 

Down  to  the  granite  of  patience 

These  roots  swept,    knotted   fibrous   roots,  prying, 

piercing,  seeking, 
And  drew  from  the  living  rock  and  the  living  waters 

about  it 
The  red  sap  to  carry  upwards  to  the  sun. 

Not  proud,  but  humble, 

Only  to  serve  and  pass  on,  to  endure  to  the  end 

through  service; 
For  the  ax  is  laid  at  the  roots  of  the  trees,  and  all  that 

bring  not  forth  good  fruit 
Shall  be  cut  down  on  the  day  to  come  and  cast  into 

the  fire. 


LINCOLN  155 


in 

There  is  a  silence  abroad  in  the  land  to-day, 

And  in  the  hearts  of  men,  a  deep  and  anxious  silence; 

And,  because  we  are  still  at  last,  those  bronze  lips 

slowly  open, 
Those  hollow  and  weary  eyes  take  on  a  gleam  of  light. 

Slowly  a  patient,  firm-syllabled  voice  cuts  through 

the  endless  silence 
Like  labouring  oxen  that  drag  a  plow  through  the 

chaos  of  rude  clay-fields: 
"I  went  forward  as  the  light  goes  forward  in  early 

spring, 
But  there  were  also  many  things  which  I  left  behind. 

"Tombs  that  were  quiet; 

One,  of  a  mother,  whose  brief  light  went  out  in  the 

darkness, 
One,  of  a  loved  one,  the  snow  on  whose  grave  is  long 

falling, 
One,  only  of  a  child,  but  it  was  mine. 

"Have  you  forgot  your  graves?  Go,  question  them  in 

anguish, 
Listen  long  to  their  unstirred  lips.  From  your  hostages 

to  silence, 
Learn  there  is  no  life  without  death,  no  dawn  without 

sun-setting, 

No  victory  but  to  him  who  has  given  all." 
/ 

IV 

The  clamour  of  cannon  dies  down,  the  furnace-mouth 
of  the  battle  is  silent. 


156  LINCOLN 


The  midwinter  sun  dips  and  descends,  the  earth  takes 

on  afresh  its  bright  colours. 
But  he  whom  we  mocked  and  obeyed  not,  he  whom 

we  scorned  and  mistrusted, 
He  has  descended,  like  a  god,  to  his  rest. 

Over  the  uproar  of  cities, 

Over  the  million  intricate  threads  of  life  wavering  and 
crossing, 

In  the  midst  of  problems  we  know  not,  tangling,  per 
plexing,  ensnaring, 

Rises  one  white  tomb  alone. 

Beam  over  it,  stars, 

Wrap  it  round,  stripes  —  stripes  red  for  the  pain  that 

he  bore  for  you  — 
Enfold  it  forever,  O  flag,  rent,  soiled,  but  repaired 

through  your  anguish; 
Long  as  you  keep  him  there  safe,  the  nations  shall  bow 

to  your  law. 

Strew  over  him  flowers : 

Blue  forget-me-nots  from  the  north,  and  the  bright 
pink  arbutus 

From  the  east,  and  from  the  west  rich  orange  blos 
som, 

And  from  the  heart  of  the  land  take  the  passion 
flower; 

Rayed,  violet,  dim, 

With  the  nails  that  pierced,  the  cross  that  he  bore  and 
the  circlet, 


LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT      157 

And   beside  it  there  lay  also  one  lonely  snow-white 

magnolia, 
Bitter  for  remembrance  of  the   healing   which   has 

passed. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT 
MIDNIGHT * 

IT  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 
That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 
Near  the  old  court-house  pacing  up  and  down, 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play, 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away., 

A  bronzed,  lank  man!  His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high-top  hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie  lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 

He  is  among  us: —  as  in  times  before! 

And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long 

Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.  He  thinks  on  men  and  kings. 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep? 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  The  Congo,  and 
Other  Poems,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Macmillan 
Company. 


158  PRAYER  DURING  BATTLE 

Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why, 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts  scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 

He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come;  —  the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free: 
The  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth, 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp  and  Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  kings  must  murder  still, 
That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.  And  who  will  bring  white  peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 

Vachel  Lindsay 


PRAYER  DURING  BATTLE 

LORD,  in  this  hour  of  tumult, 

Lord,  in  this  night  of  fears, 
Keep  open,  oh,  keep  open 

My  eyes,  my  ears. 

Not  blindly,  not  in  hatred, 

Lord,  let  me  do  my  part. 
Keep  open,  oh,  keep  open 

My  mind,  my  heart! 

Hermann  Hagedorn 


THE  WHITE  COMRADE  159 

PRAYER  OF  A  SOLDIER  IN  FRANCE 

MY  shoulders  ache  beneath  my  pack 
(Lie  easier,  Cross,  upon  His  back). 

I  march  with  feet  that  burn  and  smart 
(Tread,  Holy  Feet,  upon  my  heart). 

Men  shout  at  me  who  may  not  speak 

(They  scourged  Thy  back  and  smote  Thy  cheek). 

I  may  not  lift  a  hand  to  clear 
My  eyes  of  salty  drops  that  sear. 

(Then  shall  my  fickle  soul  forget 
Thy  Agony  of  Bloody  Sweat?) 

My  rifle  hand  is  stiff  and  numb 

(From  Thy  pierced  palm  red  rivers  come). 

Lord,  Thou  didst  suffer  more  for  me 
Than  all  the  hosts  of  land  and  sea. 

So  let  me  render  back  again 
This  millionth  of  Thy  gift.  Amen. 

Joyce  Kilmer 

THE  WHITE  COMRADE 

UNDER  our  curtain  of  fire, 

Over  the  clotted  clods, 

We  charged,  to  be  withered,  to  reel 

And  despairingly  wheel 

When  the  bugles  bade  us  retire 

From  the  terrible  odds, 


160  THE  WHITE  COMRADE 

As  we  ebbed  with  the  battle-tide. 

Fingers  of  red-hot  steel 

Suddenly  closed  on  my  side. 

I  fell,  and  began  to  pray. 

I  crawled  on  my  hands  and  lay 

Where  a  shallow  crater  yawned  wide; 

Then  I  swooned.  .  .  . 

When  I  woke,  it  was  yet  day. 
Fierce  was  the  pain  of  my  wound, 
But  I  saw  it  was  death  to  stir, 
For  fifty  paces  away 
Their  trenches  were. 
In  torture  I  prayed  for  the  dark 
And  the  stealthy  step  of  my  friend 
Who,  stanch  to  the  very  end, 
Would  creep  to  the  danger  zone 
And  offer  his  life  as  a  mark 
To  save  my  own. 

Night  fell.  I  heard  his  tread, 

Not  stealthy,  but  firm  and  serene, 

As  if  my  comrade's  head 

Were  lifted  far  from  that  scene 

Of  passion  and  pain  and  dread; 

As  if  my  comrade's  heart 

In  carnage  took  no  part; 

As  if  my  comrade's  feet 

Were  set  on  some  radiant  street 

Such  as  no  darkness  might  haunt; 

As  if  my  comrade's  eyes, 

No  deluge  of  flame  could  surprise, 

No  death  and  destruction  daunt, 


THE  WHITE  COMRADE  161 

No  red-beaked  bird  dismay, 
Nor  sight  of  decay. 

Then  in  the  bursting  shells'  dim  light 

I  saw  he  was  clad  in  white. 

For  a  moment  I  thought  that  I  saw  the  smock 

Of  a  shepherd  in  search  of  his  flock. 

Alert  were  the  enemy,  too, 

And  their  bullets  flew 

Straight  at  a  mark  no  bullet  could  fail; 

For  the  seeker  was  tall  and  his  robe  was  bright; 

But  he  did  not  flee  nor  quail. 

Instead,  with  unhurrying  stride 

He  came, 

And  gathering  my  tall  frame, 

Like  a  child,  in  his  arms  .  .  . 

I  slept, 

And  awoke 

From  a  blissful  dream 

In  a  cave  by  a  stream. 

My  silent  comrade  had  bound  my  side. 

No  pain  now  was  mine,  but  a  wish  that  I  spoke,  — 

A  mastering  wish  to  serve  this  man 

Who  had  ventured  through  hell  my  doom  to  revoke, 

As  only  the  truest  of  comrades  can. 

I  begged  him  to  tell  me  how  best  I  might  aid  him, 

And  urgently  prayed  him 

Never  to  leave  me,  whatever  betide; 

When  I  saw  he  was  hurt  — 

Shot  through  the  hands  that  were  clasped  in  prayer! 

Then,  as  the  dark  drops  gathered  there 

And  fell  in  the  dirt, 


162    SMITH,  OF  THE  THIRD  OREGON,  DIES 

The  wounds  of  my  friend 

Seemed  to  me  such  as  no  man  might  bear. 

Those  bullet-holes  in  the  patient  hands 

Seemed  to  transcend 

All  horrors  that  ever  these  war-drenched  lands 

Had  known  or  would  know  till  the  mad  world's  end. 

Then  suddenly  I  was  aware 

That  his  feet  had  been  wounded,  too; 

And,  dimming  the  white  of  his  side, 

A  dull  stain  grew. 

"You  are  hurt,  White  Comrade!"  I  cried. 

His  words  I  already  foreknew: 

"These  are  old  wounds,"  said  he, 

"But  of  late  they  have  troubled  me." 

Robert  Haven  Schauffler 


SMITH,  OF  THE  THIRD  OREGON,  DIES  * 

AUTUMN  in  Oregon  is  wet  as  Spring, 

And  green,  with  little  singings  in  the  grass, 

And  pheasants  flying,    •, 
Gold,  green  and  red, 
Great,  narrow,  lovely  things, 
As  if  an  orchid  had  snatched  wings. 
There  are  strange  birds  like  blots  against  a  sky 

Where  a  sun  is  dying. 

Beyond  the  river  where  the  hills  are  blurred 
A  cloud,  like  the  one  word 
Of  the  too-silent  sky,  stirs,  and  there  stand 

Black  trees  on  either  hand. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Drums  in  Our  Street, 
6y  Mary  Carolyn  Davies.  Copyright,  1918,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 


SONG  16 

Autumn  in  Oregon  is  wet  and  new 

As  Spring, 

And  puts  a  fever  like  Spring's  in  the  cheek 
That  once  has  touched  her  dew  — 
And  it  puts  longing  too 
In  eyes  that  once  have  seen 
Her  season-flouting  green, 

And  ears  that  listened  to  her  strange  birds 
speak. 

Autumn  in  Oregon  —  I'll  never  see 

Those  hills  again,  a  blur  of  blue  and  rain 

Across  the  old  Willamette.  I'll  not  stir 

A  pheasant  as  I  walk,  and  hear  it  whirr 

Above  my  head,  an  indolent,  trusting  thing. 

When  all  this  silly  dream  is  finished  here, 

The  fellows  will  go  home  to  where  there  fall 

Rose-petals  over  every  street,  and  all 

The  year  is  like  a  friendly  festival. 

But  I  shall  never  watch  those  hedges  drip 

Color,  not  see  the  tall  spar  of  a  ship 

In  our  old  harbor.  —  They  say  that  I  am  dying, 

Perhaps  that 's  why  it  all  comes  back  again : 

Autumn  in  Oregon  and  pheasants  flying  — 

Mary  Carolyn  Dames 


SONG 

SHE  goes  all  so  softly 

Like  a  shadow  on  the  hill, 
A  faint  wind  at  twilight 

That  stirs,  and  is  still. 


164     I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

She  weaves  her  thoughts  whitely, 

Like  doves  in  the  air, 
Though  a  gray  mound  in  Flanders 

Clouds  all  that  was  fair. 

Edward  J.  O'Brien 


LONELY  BURIAL 

THERE  were  not  many  at  that  lonely  place, 
Where  two  scourged  hills  met  in  a  little  plain. 
The  wind  cried  loud  in  gusts,  then  low  again. 
Three  pines  strained  darkly,  runners  in  a  race 
Unseen  by  any.  Toward  the  further  woods 
A  dim  harsh  noise  of  voices  rose  and  ceased. 
—  We  were  most  silent  in  those  solitudes  — 
Then,  sudden  as  a  flame,  the  black-robed  priest, 
The  clotted  earth  piled  roughly  up  about 
The  hacked  red  oblong  of  the  new-made  thing, 
Short  words  in  swordlike  Latin  —  and  a  rout 
Of  dreams  most  impotent,  unwearying. 
Then,  like  a  blind  door  shut  on  a  carouse, 
The  terrible  bareness  of  the  soul's  last  house. 
Stephen  Vincent  Benet 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade, 

When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 

And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air  — 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 


ROUGE  BOUQUET  165 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath  — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  't  were  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

A  Ian  Seeger 

ROUGE  BOUQUET 

IN  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet 
There  is  a  new-made  grave  to-day, 
Built  by  never  a  spade  nor  pick 
Yet  covered  with  earth  ten  metres  thick. 
There  lie  many  fighting  men, 

Dead  in  their  youthful  prime, 
Never  to  laugh  nor  love  again 

Nor  taste  the  Summertime. 
For  Death  came  flying  through  the  air 
And  stopped  his  flight  at  the  dugout  stair, 


166  ROUGE  BOUQUET 

Touched  his  prey  and  left  them  there, 

Clay  to  clay. 

He  hid  their  bodies  stealthily 
In  the  soil  of  the  land  they  fought  to  free 

And  fled  away. 
Now  over  the  grave  abrupt  and  clear 

Three  volleys  ring; 
And  perhaps  their  brave  young  spirits  hear 

The  bugle  sing: 
"Go  to  sleep! 
Go  to  sleep! 

Slumber  well  where  the  shell  screamed  and  fell. 
Let  your  rifles  rest  on  the  muddy  floor, 
You  will  not  need  them  any  more. 
Danger's  past; 
Now  at  last, 
Go  to  sleep!" 

There  is  on  earth  no  worthier  grave 

To  hold  the  bodies  of  the  brave 

Than  this  place  of  pain  and  pride 

Where  they  nobly  fought  and  nobly  died. 

Never  fear  but  in  the  skies 

Saints  and  angels  stand 

Smiling  with  their  holy  eyes 

On  this  new-come  band. 

St.  Michael's  sword  darts  through  the  air 

And  touches  the  aureole  on  his  hair 

As  he  sees  them  stand  saluting  there, 

His  stalwart  sons; 
And  Patrick,  Brigid,  Columkill 
Rejoice  that  in  veins  of  warriors  still 

The  Gael's  blood  runs. 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE  167 

And  up  to  Heaven's  doorway  floats, 
From  the  wood  called  Rouge  Bouquet, 

A  delicate  cloud  of  buglenotes 
That  softly  say: 

"Farewell! 

Farewell ! 

Comrades  true,  born  anew,  peace  to  you! 

Your  souls  shall  be  where  the  heroes  are 

And  your  memory  shine  like  the  morning-star. 

Brave  and  dear, 

Shield  us  here. 

Farewell!" 

Joyce  Kilmer 

FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 

(Killed  in  action  July  31,  1917} 

NEVERMORE  singing 
Will  you  go  now, 
Wearing  wild  moonlight 
On  your  broiv. 
The  moon's  white  mood 
In  your  silver  mind 
Is  all  forgotten. 
Words  of  wind 
From  off  the  hedgerow 
After  rain, 

You  do  not  hear  them; 
They  are  vain. 
There  is  a  linnet 
Craves  a  song, 
And  you  returning 
Before  long. 


168        APRIL  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Now  who  will  tell  her, 

Who  can  say 

On  what  great  errand 

You  are  away? 

You  whose  kindred 

Were  hills  of  Meath, 

Who  sang  the  lane-rose 

From  her  sheath, 

What  voice  will  cry  them 

The  grief  at  dawn 

Or  say  to  the  blackbird 

You  are  gone? 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

APRIL  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

APRIL  now  walks  the  fields  again, 

Trailing  her  tearful  leaves 

And  holding  all  her  frightened  buds  against  her  heart : 

Wrapt  in  her  clouds  and  mists, 

She  walks, 

Groping  her  way  among  the  graves  of  men. 

The  green  of  earth  is  differently  green, 

A  dreadful  knowledge  trembles  in  the  grass, 

And  little  wide-eyed  flowers  die  too  soon : 

There  is  a  stillness  here  — 

After  a  terror  of  all  raving  sounds  — 

And  birds  sit  close  for  comfort  upon  the  boughs 

Of  broken  trees. 

April,  thou  grief! 

What  of  thy  sun  and  glad,  high  wind, 


EARTH'S  EASTER  169 

Thy  valiant  hills  and  woods  and  eager  brooks, 

Thy  thousand-petalled  hopes? 

The  sky  forbids  thee  sorrow,  April! 

And  yet  — 

I  see  thee  walking  listlessly 

Across  those  scars  that  once  were  joyous  sod, 

Those  graves, 

Those  stepping-stones  from  life  to  life. 

Death  is  an  interruption  between  two  heart-beats, 

That  I  know  — 

Yet  know  not  how  I  know  — 

But  April  mourns, 

Trailing  her  tender  green, 

The  passion  of  her  green, 

Across  the  passion  of  those  fearful  fields. 

Yes,  all  the  fields! 
No  barrier  here, 
No  challenge  in  the  night, 
No  stranger-land; 

She  passes  with  her  perfect  countersign, 
Her  green; 

She  wanders  in  her  mournful  garden, 
Dropping  her  buds  like  tears, 
Spreading  her  lovely  grief  upon  the  graves  of  man. 

Leonora  Speyer 

EARTH'S  EASTER 

(1915) 

EARTH  has  gone  up  from  its  Gethsemane, 
And  now  on  Golgotha  is  crucified; 
The  spear  is  twisted  in  the  tortured  side; 
'    The  thorny  crown  still  works  its  cruelty. 


170  IN  SPITE  OF  WAR 

Hark!  while  the  victim  suffers  on  the  tree, 

There  sound  through  starry  spaces,  far  and  wide, 
Such  words  as  in  the  last  despair  are  cried: 

"My  God!  my  God!  Thou  hast  forsaken  me!" 

But  when  earth's  members  from  the  cross  are  drawn, 

And  all  we  love  into  the  grave  is  gone, 

This  hope  shall  be  a  spark  within  the  gloom : 

That,  in  the  glow  of  some  stupendous  dawn, 
We  may  go  forth  to  find,  where  lilies  bloom, 
Two  angels  bright  before  an  empty  tomb. 

Robert  Haven  Schauffler 

THE  FIELDS 

THOUGH  wisdom  underfoot 

Dies  in  the  bloody  fields, 
Slowly  the  endless  root 

Gathers  again  and  yields. 

In  fields  where  hate  has  hurled 

Its  force,  where  folly  rots, 
Wisdom  shall  be  unfurled 

Small  as  forget-me-nots. 

Witter  Bynner 

IN  SPITE  OF  WAR 

IN  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  death, 
In  spite  of  all  man's  sufferings, 
Something  within  me  laughs  and  sings 
And  I  must  praise  with  all  my  breath. 
In  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  hate 
Lilacs  are  blooming  at  my  gate, 


WIDE  HAVEN  171 


Tulips  are  tripping  down  the  path 
In  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  wrath. 
"Courage!"  the  morning-glory  saith; 
"Rejoice!"  the  daisy  murmureth, 
And  just  to  live  is  so  divine 
When  pansies  lift  their  eyes  to  mine. 

The  clouds  are  romping  with  the  sea, 
And  flashing  waves  call  back  to  me 
That  naught  is  real  but  what  is  fair, 
That  everywhere  and  everywhere 
A  glory  liveth  through  despair. 
Though  guns  may  roar  and  cannon  boom, 
Roses  are  born  and  gardens  bloom; 
My  spirit  still  may  light  its  flame 
At  that  same  torch  whence  poppies  came. 
Where  morning's  altar  whitely  burns 
Lilies  may  lift  their  silver  urns 
In  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  shame. 

And  in  my  ear  a  whispering  breath, 
"Wake  from  the  nightmare!  Look  and  see 
That  life  is  naught  but  ecstasy 
In  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  death!" 

Angela  Morgan 

WIDE  HAVEN 

TIRED  of  man's  futile,  petty  cry, 

Of  lips  that  lie  and  flout, 
I  saw  the  slow  sun  dim  and  die 

And  the  slim  dusk  slip  out  .  .  . 

Life  held  no  room  for  doubt. 


172  PEACE 

What  though  Death  claim  the  ones  I  prize 

In  War's  insane  crusade, 
Last  night  I  saw  Orion  rise 

And  the  great  day-star  fade, 

And  I  am  not  dismayed. 

Clement  Wood 

TO  ANY  ONE 

WHETHER  the  time  be  slow  or  fast, 

Enemies,  hand  in  hand, 
Must  come  together  at  the  last 

And  understand. 

No  matter  how  the  die  is  cast 

Nor  who  may  seem  to  win, 
You  know  that  you  must  love  at  last  — 

Why  not  begin? 

Witter  Bynner 

PEACE 

SUDDENLY  bells  and  flags! 
Suddenly  —  door  to  door  — 
Tidings !  Can  we  believe, 
We,  who  were  used  to  war? 

Yet  we  have  dreamed  her  face, 
Knowing  her  light  must  be, 
Knowing  that  she  must  come. 
Look  —  she  comes,  it  is  she! 

Tattered  her  raiment  floats, 
Blood  is  upon  her  wings. 


JERICO  173 


Ah,  but  her  eyes  are  clear ! 
Ah,  but  her  voice  outrings ! 

Soon  where  the  shrapnel  fell 
Petals  shall  wake  and  stir. 
Look  —  she  is  here,  she  lives ! 
Beauty  has  died  for  her. 

Agnes  Lee 

THE  KINGS  ARE  PASSING  DEATHWARD 

THE  Kings  are  passing  deathward  in  the  dark 

Of  days  that  had  been  splendid  where  they  went; 
Their  crowns  are  captive  and  their  courts  are  stark 

Of  purples  that  are  ruinous,  now,  and  rent. 
For  all  that  they  have  seen  disastrous  things : 

The  shattered  pomp,  the  split  and  shaken  throne, 
They  cannot  quite  forget  the  way  of  Kings : 

Gravely  they  pass,  majestic  and  alone. 

With  thunder  on  their  brows,  their  faces  set 
Toward  the  eternal  night  of  restless  shapes, 

They  walk  in  awful  splendor,  regal  yet, 

Wearing  their  crimes  like  rich  and  kingly  capes  .  . 

Curse  them  or  taunt,  they  will  not  hear  or  see; 
The  Kings  are  passing  deathward :  let  them  be. 

David  Morton 

JERICO 

JERICO,  Jerico, 

Round  and  round  the  walls  I  go 
Where  they  watch  with  scornful  eyes, 
Where  the  captained  bastions  rise; 


JERICO 


Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 
Blithely  round  the  walls  I  go. 

Jerico,  Jerico, 

Round  and  round  the  walls  I  go  ... 
All  the  golden  ones  of  earth 
Regal  in  their  lordly  mirth  .  .  . 
Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 
Round  and  round  the  walls  I  go. 

Jerico,  Jerico, 

Blithely  round  the  walls  I  go, 
With  a  broken  sword  in  hand 
Where  the  mighty  bastions  stand; 
Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 
Hear  my  silly  bugle  blow. 

Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 
Round  the  walls  of  Jerico  .  .  . 
Past  the  haughty  golden  gate 
Where  the  emperor  in  state 
Smiles  to  see  the  ragged  show, 
Round  and  round  the  towers  go. 

Jerico,  Jerico, 

Round  and  round  and  round  I  go  ... 

All  their  sworded  bodies  must 

Lie  low  in  their  tower's  dust  .  .  . 

Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 

Blithely  round  the  walls  I  go. 

Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe,  — 
I  will  blow  a  thunder  note 


STUDENTS  175 


From  my  brazen  bugle's  throat 
Till  the  sand  and  thistle  know 
The  leveled  walls  of  Jerico, 
Jerico,  Jerico,  Jerico,  .  .  . 

Willard  Wattles 

STUDENTS 

JOHN  BROWN  and  Jeanne  at  Fontainebleau  — 
'T  was  Toussaint,  just  a  year  ago; 
Crimson  and  copper  was  the  glow 
Of  all  the  woods  at  Fontainebleau. 
They  peered  into  that  ancient  well, 
And  watched  the  slow  torch  as  it  fell. 
John  gave  the  keeper  two  whole  sous, 
And  Jeanne  that  smile  with  which  she  woos 
John  Brown  to  folly.  So  they  lose 
The  Paris  train.  But  never  mind!  — 
All-Saints  are  rustling  in  the  wind, 
And  there's  an  inn,  a  crackling  fire  — 
(It 's  deux-cinquante,  but  Jeanne's  desire) ; 
There's  dinner,  candles,  country  wine, 
Jeanne's  lips  —  philosophy  divine! 

There  was  a  bosquet  at  Saint  Cloud 
Wherein  John's  picture  of  her  grew 
To  be  a  Salon  masterpiece  — 
Till  the  rain  fell  that  would  not  cease. 
Through  one  long  alley  how  they  raced!  — 
'Twas  gold  and  brown,  and  all  a  waste 
Of  matted  leaves,  moss-interlaced. 
Shades  of  mad  queens  and  hunter-kings 
And  thorn-sharp  feet  of  dryad-things 


176  STUDENTS 


Were  company  to  their  wanderings; 
Then  rain  and  darkness  on  them  drew. 
The  rich  folks'  motors  honked  and  flew. 
They  hailed  an  old  cab,  heaven  for  two; 
The  bright  Champs-Elysees  at  last  — 
Though  the  cab  crawled  it  sped  too  fast. 

\ 

Paris,  upspringing  white  and  gold: 
Flamboyant  arch  and  high-enscrolled 
War-sculpture,  big,  Napoleonic  — 
Fierce  chargers,  angels  histrionic; 
The  royal  sweep  of  gardened  spaces, 
The  pomp  and  whirl  of  columned  Places; 
The  Rive  Gauche,  age-old,  gay  and  gray; 
The  impasse  and  the  loved  cafe; 
The  tempting  tidy  little  shops; 
The  convent  walls,  the  glimpsed  tree-tops; 
Book-stalls,  old  men  like  dwarfs  in  plays; 
Talk,  work,  and  Latin  Quarter  ways. 

May  —  Robinson's,  the  chestnut  trees  — 
Were  ever  crowds  as  gay  as  these? 
The  quick  pale  waiters  on  a  run, 
The  round,  green  tables,  one  by  one, 
Hidden  away  in  amorous  bowers  — 
Lilac,  laburnum's  golden  showers. 
Kiss,  clink  of  glasses,  laughter  heard, 
And  nightingales  quite  undeterred. 
And  then  that  last  extravagance  — 
O  Jeanne,  a  single  amber  glance 
Will  pay  him!  —  " Let's  play  millionaire 
For  just  two  hours  —  on  princely  fare, 


WHICH  177 


At  some  hotel  where  lovers  dine 

A  deux  and  pledge  across  the  wine!" 

They  find  a  damask  breakfast-room, 

Where  stiff  silk  roses  range  their  bloom. 

The  garcon  has  a  splendid  way 

Of  bearing  in  grand  dejeuner. 

Then  to  be  left  alone,  alone, 

High  up  above  Rue  Castiglione; 

Curtained  away  from  all  the  rude 

Rumors,  in  silken  solitude; 

And,  John,  her  head  upon  your  knees  — 

Time  waits  for  moments  such  as  these. 

Florence  Wilkinson 

TAMPICO 

OH,  cut  me  reeds  to  blow  upon, 

Or  gather  me  a  star, 
But  leave  the  sultry  passion-flowers 

Growing  where  they  are. 

I  fear  their  sombre  yellow  deeps, 

Their  whirling  fringe  of  black, 
And  he  who  gives  a  passion-flower 

Always  asks  it  back. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

WHICH 

WE  ask  that  Love  shall  rise  to  the  divine, 
And  yet  we  crave  him  very  human,  too; 
Our  hearts  would  drain  the  crimson  of  his  wine, 
Our  souls  despise  him  if  he  prove  untrue! 


178  APOLOGY 


Poor  Love!  I  hardly  see  what  you  can  do! 
We  know  all  human  things  are  weak  and  frail, 
And  yet  we  claim  that  very  part  of  you, 
Then,  inconsistent,  blame  you  if  you  fail. 
When  you  would  soar,  't  is  wre  who  clip  your  wings, 
Although  we  weep  because  you  faint  and  fall. 
Alas!  it  seems  we  want  so  many  things, 
That  no  dear  love  could  ever  grant  them  all! 
Which  shall  we  choose,  the  human  or  divine, 
The  crystal  stream,  or  yet  the  crimson  wine? 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 


APOLOGY  i 

BE  not  angry  with  me  that  I  bear 
Your  colours  everywhere, 
All  through  each  crowded  street, 

And  meet 
The  wonder-light  in  every  eye, 

As  I  go  by. 

Each  plodding  wayfarer  looks  up  to  gaze, 
Blinded  by  rainbow  haze, 
The  stuff  of  happiness, 

No  less, 
Which  wraps  me  in  its  glad-hued  folds 

Of  peacock  golds. 

Before  my  feet  the  dusty,  rough-paved  way 
Flushes  beneath  its  gray. 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of'  the  publishers  from  Sword  Blades  and 
Poppy  Seed,  by  Amy  Lowell.  Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Macmillan  Com 
pany. 


\ 


THE  GREAT  HUNT  179 

My  steps  fall  ringed  with  light, 

So  bright, 
It  seems  a  myriad  suns  are  strown 

About  the  town. 

Around  me  is  the  sound  of  steepled  bells, 
And  rich  perfumed  smells 
Hang  like  a  wind-forgotten  cloud, 

And  shroud 

Me  from  close  contact  with  the  world. 
I  dwell  impearled. 

You  blazen  me  with  jewelled  insignia. 
A  naming  nebula 
Rims  in  my  life.  And  yet 

You  set 

The  word  upon  me,  unconfessed 
To  go  unguessed. 

Amy  Lowell 

THE  GREAT  HUNT 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  now ; 

When  the  wind's  drive  and  whirl 

Blow  me  along  no  longer, 

And  the  wind 's  a  whisper  at  last  — 

Maybe  I'll  tell  you  then  — 

some  other  time. 

When  the  rose's  flash  to  the  sunset 
Reels  to  the  wrack  and  the  twist, 
And  the  rose  is  a  red  bygone, 
When  the  face  I  love  is  going 


180  DIALOGUE 


And  the  gate  to  the  end  shall  clang, 
And  it's  no  use  to  beckon  or  say,  "So  long"  — 
Maybe  I'll  tell  you  then  — 

some  other  time. 

I  never  knew  any  more  beautiful  than  you: 
I  have  hunted  you  under  my  thoughts, 
I  have  broken  down  under  the  wind 
And  into  the  roses  looking  for  you. 
I  shall  never  find  any 

greater  than  you. 

Carl  Sandburg 

DIALOGUE 

BE  patient,  Life,  when  Love  is  at  the  gate, 
And  when  he  enters  let  him  be  at  home. 
Think  of  the  roads  that  he  has  had  to  roam. 
Think  of  the  years  that  he  has  had  to  wait. 

But  if  I  let  Love  in  I  shall  be  late. 
Another  has  come  first  —  there  is  no  room. 
And  I  am  thoughtful  of  the  endless  loom  — 
Let  Love  be  patient,  the  importunate. 

O  Life,  be  idle  and  let  Love  come  in, 

And  give  thy  dreamy  hair  that  Love  may  spin. 

But  Love  himself  is  idle  with  his  song. 

Let  Love  come  last,  and  then  may  Love  last  long. 

Be  patient,  Life,  for  Love  is  not  the  last. 
Be  patient  now  with  Death,  for  Love  has  passed. 
Walter  Conrad  Arensberg 


THE  BITTER  HERB  181 

SONG 

THE  Spring  will  come  when  the  year  turns, 

As  if  no  Winter  had  been, 
But  what  shall  I  do  with  a  locked  heart 

That  lets  no  new  year  in? 

The  birds  will  go  when  the  Fall  goes, 

The  leaves  will  fade  in  the  field,  // 

But  what  shall  I  do  with  an  old  love 
Will  neither  die  nor  yield? 

Oh!  youth  will  turn  as  the  world  turns, 
And  dim  grow  laughter  and  pain, 

But  how  shall  I  hide  from  an  old  dream 
I  never  may  dream  again? 

Margaret  Widdemer 

THE  BITTER  HERB 

0  BITTER  herb,  Forgetfulness, 

1  search  for  you  in  vain; 

You  are  the  only  growing  thing 
Can  take  away  my  pain. 

When  I  was  young,  this  bitter  herb 
Grew  wild  on  every  hill; 
I  should  have  plucked  a  store  of  it, 
And  kept  it  by  me  still. 

I  hunt  through  all  the  meadows 
Where  once  I  wandered  free, 
But  the  rare  herb,  Forgetfulness, 
It  hides  away  from  me. 


182  MEN  OF  HARLAN 

O  bitter  herb,  Forgetfulness, 
Where  is  your  drowsy  breath? 
Oh,  can  it  be  your  seed  has  blown 
Far  as  the  Vales  of  Death? 

Jeanne  Robert  Foster 

BEHIND  THE  HOUSE  IS  THE  MILLET 
PLOT 

BEHIND  the  house  is  the  millet  plot, 
And  past  the  millet,  the  stile; 
And  then  a  hill  where  melilot 
Grows  with  wild  camomile. 

There  was  a  youth  who  bade  me  goodby 
Where  the  hill  rises  to  meet  the  sky. 
I  think  my  heart  broke;  but  I  have  forgot 
All  but  the  smell  of  the  white  melilot. 

Muna  Lee 

MEN  OF  HARLAN 

HERE   in  the  level  country,   where  the  creeks  run 

straight  and  wide, 
Six  men  upon  their  pacing  nags  may  travel  side  by 

side. 
But  the  mountain  men  of  Harlan,  you  may  tell  them 

all  the  while, 
When  they  pass  through  our  village,  for  they  ride  in 

single  file. 
And  the  children,  when  they  see  them,  stop  their  play 

and  stand  and  cry, 
"Here  come  the  men  of  Harlan,  men  of  Harlan,  riding 

by!" 


MEN  OF  HARLAN  183 

0  the  mountain  men  of  Harlan,  when  they  come  down 

to  the  plain, 
With   dangling   stirrup,   jangling   spur,   and   loosely 

hanging  rein, 
They  do  not  ride,  like  our  folks  here,  in  twos  and 

threes  abreast, 
With  merry  laughter,  talk  and  song,  and  lightly  spoken 

jest; 

But  silently  and  solemnly,  in  long  and  straggling  line, 
As  you  may  see  them  in  the  hills,  beyond  Big  Black 

and  Pine. 

For,  in  that  far  strange  country,  where  the  men  of 

Harlan  dwell, 
There  are  no  roads  at  all,  like  ours,  as  we've  heard 

travelers  tell. 
But  only  narrow  trails  that  wind  along  each  shallow 

creek, 
Where  the  silence  hangs  so  heavy,  you  can  hear  the 

leathers  squeak. 
And  there  no  two  can  ride  abreast,  but  each  alone 

must  go, 
Picking  his  way  as  best  he  may,  with  careful  steps  and 

slow, 

Down  many  a  shelving  ledge  of  shale,  skirting  the 

trembling  sands, 
Through  many  a  pool  and  many  a  pass,  where  the 

mountain  laurel  stands 
So  thick  and  close  to  left  and  right,  with  holly  bushes, 

too, 
The  clinging  branches  meet  midway  to  bar  the  passage 

through,  — 


184  HAVE  YOU  AN  EYE 

O'er  many  a  steep  and  stony  ridge,  o'er  many  a  high 

divide,  , 
And  so  it  is  the  Harlan  men  thus  one  by  one  do  ride. 

Yet  it  is  strange  to  see  them  pass  in  line  through  our 
wide  street, 

When  they  come  down  to  sell  their  sang,  and  buy  their 
stores  of  meat, 

These  silent  men,  in  sombre  black,  all  clad  from  foot 
to  head, 

Though  they  have  left  their  lonely  hills  and  the  nar 
row  creek's  rough  bed. 

And  't  is  no  wonder  children  stop  their  play  and  stand 
and  cry: 

"Here  come  the  men  of  Harlan,  men  of  Harlan,  riding 

by." 

William  Aspinwall  Bradley 

HAVE  YOU  AN  EYE 

HAVE  you  an  eye  for  the  trails,  the  trails, 

The  old  mark  and  the  new? 
What  scurried  here,  what  loitered  there, 

In  the  dust  and  in  the  dew? 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  beaten  track, 

The  old  hoof  and  the  young? 
Come  name  me  the  drivers  of  yesterday, 

Sing  me  the  songs  they  sung. 

O,  was  it  a  schooner  last  went  by, 

And  where  will  it  ford  the  stream? 

Where  will  it  halt  in  the  early  dusk, 

And  where  will  the  camp-fire  gleam? 


AFTER  APPLE-PICKING  185 

They  used  to  take  the  shortest  cut 

The  cattle  trails  had  made; 
Get  down  the  hill  by  the  easy  slope 

To  the  water  and  the  shade. 

But  it's  barbed  wire  fence,  and  section  line, 

And  kill-horse  travel  now; 
Scoot  you  down  the  canyon  bank,  — 

The  old  road  's  under  plough. 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  laden  wheel, 

The  worn  tire  or  the  new? 
Or  the  sign  of  the  prairie  pony's  hoof 

Was  never  trimmed  for  shoe? 

Edwin  Ford  Piper 

AFTER  APPLE-PICKING 

MY  long  two-pointed  ladder 's  sticking  through  a  tree 

Toward  heaven  still, 

And  there's  a  barrel  that  I  did  n't  fill 

Beside  it,  and  there  may  be  two  or  three 

Apples  I  did  n't  pick  upon  some  bough. 

But  I  am  done  with  apple-picking  now. 

Essence  of  winter  sleep  is  on  the  night, 

The  scent  of  apples :  I  am  drowsing  off. 

I  cannot  rub  the  strangeness  from  my  sight 

I  got  from  looking  through  a  pane  of  glass 

I  skimmed  this  morning  from  the  drinking  trough 

And  held  against  the  world  of  hoary  grass. 

It  melted,  and  I  let  it  fall  and  break. 

But  I  was  well 

Upon  my  way  to  sleep  before  it  fell, 

And  I  could  tell 


186  AUTUMN 


What  form  my  dreaming  was  about  to  take. 

Magnified  apples  appear  and  disappear, 

Stem  end  and  blossom  end, 

And  every  fleck  of  russet  showing  clear. 

My  instep  arch  not  only  keeps  the  ache, 

It  keeps  the  pressure  of  a  ladder-round. 

I  feel  the  ladder  sway  as  the  boughs  bend. 

And  I  keep  hearing  from  the  cellar  bin 

The  rumbling  sound 

Of  load  on  load  of  apples  coming  in. 

For  I  have  had  too  much 

Of  apple-picking :  I  am  overtired 

Of  the  great  harvest  I  myself  desired. 

There  were  ten  thousand  thousand  fruit  to  touch, 

Cherish  in  hand,  lift  down,  and  not  let  fall. 

For  all 

That  struck  the  earth, 

No  matter  if  not  bruised  or  spiked  with  stubble, 

Went  surely  to  the  cider-apple  heap 

As  of  no  worth. 

One  can  see  what  will  trouble 

This  sleep  of  mine,  whatever  sleep  it  is. 

Were  he  not  gone, 

The  woodchuck  could  say  whether  it 's  like  his 

Long  sleep,  as  I  describe  its  coming  on, 

Or  just  some  human  sleep. 

Robert  Frost 

AUTUMN 

(For  my  Mother) 

How  memory  cuts  away  the  years, 
And  how  clean  the  picture  comes 
Of  autumn  days,  brisk  and  busy; 


AUTUMN  187 


Charged  with  keen  sunshine. 
And  you,  stirred  with  activity; 
The  spirit  of  these  energetic  days. 

There  was  our  back-yard, 

So  plain  and  stripped  of  green, 

With  even  the  weeds  carefully  pulled  away 

From  the  crooked,  red  bricks  that  made  the  walk. 

And  the  earth  on  either  side  so  black. 

Autumn  and  dead  leaves  burning  in  the  sharp  air; 

And  winter  comforts  coming  in  like  a  pageant. 

I  shall  not  forget  them : 

Great  jars  laden  with  the  raw  green  of  pickles, 

Standing  in  a  solemn  row  across  the  back  of  the  porch, 

Exhaling  the  pungent  dill; 

And  in  the  very  center  of  the  yard, 

You,   tending  the   great  catsup   kettle  of  gleaming 

copper 

Where  fat,  red  tomatoes  bobbed  up  and  down 
Like  jolly  monks  in  a  drunken  dance. 
And  there  were  bland  banks  of  cabbages  that  came  by 

the  wagon-load, 

Soon  to  be  cut  into  delicate  ribbons 
Only  to  be  crushed  by  the  heavy,  wooden  stompers. 
Such  feathery  whiteness  —  to  come  to  kraut! 
And  after,  there  were  grapes  that  hid  their  brightness 

under  a  grey  dust, 

Then  gushed  thrilling,  purple  blood  over  the  fire; 
And  enamelled  crab-apples  that  tricked  with  their 

fragrance 

But  were  bitter  to  taste. 
And  there  were  spicy  plums  and  ill-shaped  quinces, 


188  GOD'S  WORLD 


And  long  string  beans  floating  in  pans  of  clear  water 

Like  slim,  green  fishes. 

And  there  was  fish  itself, 

Salted,  silver  herring  from  the  city  .  .  . 

And  you  moved  among  these  mysteries, 

Absorbed  and  smiling  and  sure; 

Stirring,  tasting,  measuring, 

With  the  precision  of  a  ritual. 

I  like  to  think  of  you  in  your  years  of  power  — 

You,  now  so  shaken  and  so  powerless  — 

High  priestess  of  your  home. 

Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

AUTUMN  MOVEMENT 

I  CRIED  over  beautiful  things  knowing  no  beautiful 
thing  lasts. 

The  field  of  cornflower  yellow  is  a  scarf  at  the  neck  of 
the  copper  sunburned  woman,  the  mother  of 
the  year,  the  taker  of  seeds. 

The  northwest  wind  comes  and  the  yellow  is  torn  full 
of  holes,  new  beautiful  things  come  in  the  first 
spit  of  snow  on  the  northwest  wind,  and  the  old 
things  go,  not  one  lasts. 

Carl  Sandburg 

GOD'S  WORLD 

O  WORLD,  I  cannot  hold  thee  close  enough! 
Thy  winds,  thy  wide  grey  skies! 
Thy  mists  that  roll  and  rise! 


WHEN  THE  YEAR  GROWS  OLD       189 

Thy  woods  this  autumn  day,  that  ache  and  sag 
And  all  but  cry  with  colour!  That  gaunt  crag 
To  crush!  To  lift  the  lean  of  that  black  bluff! 
World,  World,  I  cannot  get  thee  close  enough! 

Long  have  I  known  a  glory  in  it  all, 

But  never  knew  I  this; 

Here  such  a  passion  is 
As  stretcheth  me  apart,  —  Lord,  I  do  fear 
Thou'st  made  the  world  too  beautiful  this  year; 
My  soul  is  all  but  out  of  me,  —  let  fall 
No  burning  leaf;  prithee,  let  no  bird  call. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


OVERTONES 

I  HEARD  a  bird  at  break  of  day 

Sing  from  the  autumn  trees 
A  song  so  mystical  and  calm, 

So  full  of  certainties, 
No  man,  I  think,  could  listen  long 

Except  upon  his  knees. 
Yet  this  was  but  a  simple  bird, 

Alone,  among  dead  trees. 

William  Alexander  Percy 


WHEN  THE  YEAR  GROWS  OLD 

I  CANNOT  but  remember 

When  the  year  grows  old  — 

October  —  November  — 
How  she  disliked  the  cold ! 


190       WHEN  THE  YEAR  GROWS  OLD 

She  used  to  watch  the  swallows 

Go  down  across  the  sky, 
And  turn  from  the  window 

With  a  little  sharp  sigh. 

And  often  when  the  brown  leaves 
Were  brittle  on  the  ground, 

And  the  wind  in  the  chimney 
Made  a  melancholy  sound, 

She  had  a  look  about  her 

That  I  wish  I  could  forget  — 

The  look  of  a  scared  thing 
Sitting  in  a  net! 

Oh,  beautiful  at  nightfall 

The  soft  spitting  snow! 
And  beautiful  the  bare  boughs 

Rubbing  to  and  fro! 

But  the  roaring  of  the  fire, 

And  the  warmth  of  fur, 
And  the  boiling  of  the  kettle 

Were  beautiful  to  her! 

I  cannot  but  remember 

When  the  year  grows  old  — 

October  —  November  — 

How  she  disliked  the  cold! 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


THE  NARROW  DOORS  191 

IN  THE  MONASTERY 

COLD  is  the  wind  to-night,  and  rough  the  sea, 
Too  rough  for  even  the  daring  Dane  to  find 
A  landing-place  upon  the  frozen  lea. 

Cold  is  the  wind. 

The  blast  sweeps  round  the  chapel  from  behind, 

Making  the  altar-light  flare  fitfully, 

While  I  must  kneel  and  pray  with  troubled  mind. 

Patrick  and  Brigid,  I  have  prayed  to  ye! 
The  night  is  over,  and  my  task  resigned 
To  Colum.  Though  God's  own  dwelling  shelter  me, 

Cold  is  the  wind. 
Norreys  Jephson  0' Conor 

THE  NARROW  DOORS 

THE  Wide  Door  into  Sorrow 
Stands  open  night  and  day. 
With  head  held  high  and  dancing  feet 
I  pass  it  on  my  way. 

I  never  tread  within  it, 
I  never  turn  to  see 
The  Wide  Door  into  Sorrow. 
It  cannot  frighten  me. 

The  Narrow  Doors  to  Sorrow 

Are  secret,  still,  and  low : 

Swift  tongues  of  dusk  that  spoil  the  sun 

Before  I  even  know. 


192         I  PASS  A  LIGHTED  WINDOW 

My  dancing  feet  are  frozen. 
I  stare.  I  can  but  see. 
The  Narrow  Doors  to  Sorrow 
They  stop  the  heart  in  me. 

—  Oh,  stranger  than  my  midnights 
Of  loneliness  and  strife 
The  Doors  that  let  the  dark  leap  in 
Across  my  sunny  life! 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 


I  PASS  A  LIGHTED  WINDOW 

I  PASS  a  lighted  window 
And  a  closed  door  — 

And  I  am  not  troubled 
Any  more. 

Though  the  road  is  murky, 

I  am  not  afraid, 
For  a  shadow  passes 

On  the  lighted  shade. 

Once  I  knew  the  sesame 
To  the  closed  door; 

Now  I  shall  not  enter 
Any  more; 

Nor  will  people  passing 

By  the  lit  place, 
See  our  shadows  marry 

In  a  gray  embrace. 


DOORS  193 


Strange  a  passing  shadow 

Has  a  long  spell ! 
What  can  matter,  knowing 

She  does  well? 


How  can  life  annoy  me 

Any  more? 
Life :  a  lighted  window 

And  a  closed  door. 

Clement  Wood 


DOORS  i 
/ 

/ 

LIKE  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door 
Runs  eager  for  the  welcoming  embrace, 
'   And  finds  the  door  shut,  andjyith  troubled  face 

Calls  and  through  sobbing  calls,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

Calling,  storms  at  the  panel  —  so  before 

A  door  that  will  not  open,  sick  and  numb, 
I  listen  for  a  word  that  will  not  come, 

And  know,  at  last,  I  may  not  enter  more. 

Silence!  And  through  the  silence  and  the  dark 
By  that  closed  door,  the  distant  sob  of  tears 

Beats  on  my  spirit,  as  on  fairy  shores 
The  spectral  sea;  and  through  the  sobbing  —  hark! 
Down  the  fair-chambered  corridor  of  years, 
The  quiet  shutting,  one  by  one,  of  doors. 

Hermann  Hagedorn 

i  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Poetrn  and  Ballads, 
by  Hermann  Hagedorn.  Copyright  1913,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


194  IRISH  LOVE  SONG 


WHERE  LOVE  ONCE  WAS 

WHERE  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate: 
Though  they  that  went  as  one  by  night  and  day 
Go  now  alone, 
Where  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate. 

The  seeds  we  planted  together 

Came  to  rich  harvest, 

And  our  hearts  are  as  bins  brimming  with  the  golden 

plenty: 
Into  our  loneliness  we  carry  granaries  of  old  love  .  .  . 

And  though  the  time  has  come  when  we  cannot  sow 

our  acres  together, 
And  our  souls  need  diverse  fields, 
And  a  tilling  apart, 

Let  us  go  separate  ways  with  a  blessing  each  for  each, 
And  gentle  parting, 
And  let  there  be  no  hate, 
Where  love  once  was. 

James  Oppenheim 

IRISH  LOVE  SONG 

WELL,  if  the  thing  is  over,  better  it  is  for  me, 
The  lad  was  ever  a  rover,  loving  and  laughing  free, 
Far  too  clever  a  lover  not  to  be  having  still 
A  lass  in  the  town  and  a  lass  by  the  road  and  a  lass 

by  the  farther  hill  — 
Love  on  the  field  and  love  on  the  path  and  love  in  the 

woody  glen  — 
(Lad,  will  I  never  see  you,  never  your  face  again?) 


NIRVANA  195 


Ay,  if  the  thing  is  ending,  now  I  '11  be  getting  rest, 
Saying  my  prayers  and  bending  down  to  be  stilled  and 

blest, 
Never  the  days  are  sending  hope  till  my  heart  is 

sore 
For  a  laugh  on  the  path  and  a  voice  by  the  gate  and  a 

step  on  the  shieling  floor  — 
Grief  on  my  ways  and  grief  on  my  work  and  grief  till 

the  evening 's  dim  — 
(Lord,  will  I  never  hear  it,  never  a  sound  of  him?) 

Sure  if  it's  done  forever,  better  for  me  that's  wise, 
Never  the  hurt,  and  never  tears  in  my  aching  eyes, 
No  more  the  trouble  ever  to  hide  from  my  asking 

folk 
Beat  of  my  heart  at  click  o'  the  latch,  and  throb  if 

his  name  is  spoke; 
Never  the  need  to  hide  the  sighs  and  the  flushing 

thoughts  and  the  fret, 
And  after  awhile  my  heart  will  hush  and  my  hungering 

hands  forget  .  .  . 
Peace  on  my  ways,  and  peace  in  my  step,  and  maybe 

my  heart  grown  light  — 

(Mary,  helper  of  heartbreak,  send  him  to  me  to-night!) 

Margaret  Widdemer 

NIRVANA 

SLEEP  on  —  I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Over  the  stars  that  murmur  as  they  go 
Lighting  your  lattice-window  far  below; 

And  every  star  some  of  the  glory  spells 
Whereof  I  know. 


196  SILENCE 


I  have  forgotten  you,  long  long  ago; 

Like  the  sweet,  silver  singing  of  thin  bells 
Vanished,  or  music  fading  faint  and  low. 

Sleep  on  —  I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Who  loved  you  so. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

A  NUN 

ONE  glance  and  I  had  lost  her  in  the  riot 

Of  tangled  cries. 
She  trod  the  clamor  with  a  cloistral  quiet 

Deep  in  her  eyes 
As  though  she  heard  the  muted  music  only 

That  silence  makes 
Among  dim  mountain  summits  and  on  lonely 

Deserted  lakes. 

There  is  some  broken  song  her  heart  remembers 

From  long  ago, 
Some  love  lies  buried  deep,  some  passion's  embers 

Smothered  in  snow, 
Far  voices  of  a  joy  that  sought  and  missed  her 

Fail  now,  and  cease  .  .  . 
And  this  has  given  the  deep  eyes  of  God's  sister 

Their  dreadful  peace. 

Odell  Shepherd 

SILENCE  i 

I  HAVE  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 
And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses, 
And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  Songs  and  Satires, 
by  Edgar  Lee  Masters.  Copyright,  1915,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


SILENCE  197 


And  the  silence  of  the  sick 

When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 

And  I  ask :  For  the  depths, 

Of  what  use  is  language? 

A  beast  of  the  field  moans  a  few  times 

When  death  takes  its  young. 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities  - 

We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious  boy  asks  an  old  soldier 

Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 

"How  did  you  lose  your  leg?" 

And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 

Or  his  mind  flies  away 

Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg. 

It  comes  back  jocosely 

And  he  says,  "A  bear  bit  it  off." 

And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 

Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 

The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 

And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 

And  the  long  days  in  bed. 

But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 

He  would  be  an  artist. 

But  if  he  were  an  artist  there  would  be  deeper 

wounds 
Which  he  could  not  describe. 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 

And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 

And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship. 


198  SILENCE 


There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 

Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 

Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 

Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 

There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished; 

And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 

Suddenly  grips  yours. 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 

When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 

Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it. 

There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband  and 

wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed; 
And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 
Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 
There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln,  ; 
Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 
And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 
After  Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 
Saying  amid  the  flames,  "Blessed  Jesus'* — 
Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrows,  all  hope. 
And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 
Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 
In  words  intelligible  to  those  who  have  not  lived 
The  great  range  of  life. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 
Of  profound  experiences, 
Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 


INDIAN  SUMMER  199 

Do  not  tell  you  of  death? 
Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 
As  we  approach  them. 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

THE  DARK  CAVALIER 

I  AM  the  Dark  Cavalier;  I  am  the  Last  Lover: 
My  arms  shall  welcome  you  when  other  arms  are 
tired; 

I  stand  to  wait  for  you,  patient  in  the  darkness, 
Offering  forgetfulness  of  all  that  you  desired. 

I  ask  no  merriment,  no  pretense  of  gladness, 

I  can  love  heavy  lids  and  lips  without  their  rose; 

Though  you  are  sorrowful  you  will  not  weary  me; 
I  will  not  go  from  you  when  all  the  tired  world  goes. 

I  am  the  Dark  Cavalier;  I  am  the  Last  Lover; 

I  promise  faithfulness  no  other  lips  may  keep; 
Safe  in  my  bridal  place,  comforted  by  darkness, 

You  shall  lie  happily,  smiling  in  your  sleep. 

Margaret  Widdemer 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

(After  completing  a  book  for  one  now  dead) 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done.) 
In  the  brown  grasses  slanting  with  the  wind, 
Lone  as  a  lad  whose  dog  *s  no  longer  near, 
Lone  as  a  mother  whose  only  child  has  sinned, 
Lone  on  the  loved  hill  .  .  .  and  below  me  here 


200  INDIAN  SUMMER 

The  thistle-down  in  tremulous  atmosphere 
Along  red  clusters  of  the  sumach  streams; 
The  shrivelled  stalks  of  golden-rod  are  sere, 
And  crisp  and  white  their  flashing  old  racemes. 
(  .  .  .  forever  .  .  .  forever  ....  forever  .  .  .) 
This  is  the  lonely  season  of  the  year, 
This  is  the  season  of  our  lonely  dreams. 

(0  Earth-and- Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
The  corn-shocks  westward  on  the  stubble  plain 
Show  like  an  Indian  village  of  dead  days; 
The  long  smoke  trails  behind  the  crawling  train, 
And  floats  atop  the  distant  woods  ablaze 
With  orange,  crimson,  purple.  The  low  haze 
Dims  the  scarped  bluffs  above  the  inland  sea, 
Whose  wide  and  slaty  waters  in  cold  glaze 
Await  yon  full-moon  of  the  night-to-be, 
(  .  .  .  far  .  .  .  and  far  .  .  .  and  far  .  .  .) 
These  are  the  solemn  horizons  of  man's  ways, 
These  are  the  horizons  of  solemn  thought  to  me. 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
And  this  the  hill  she  visited,  as  friend; 
And  this  the  hill  she  lingered  on,  as  bride  — 
Down  in  the  yellow  valley  is  the  end: 
They  laid  her  ...  in  no  evening  autumn  tide  .  .  . 
Under  fresh  flowers  of  that  May  morn,  beside 
The  queens  and  cave-women  of  ancient  earth  .  .  . 

This  is  the  hill  .  .  .  and  over  my  city's  towers, 
Across  the  world  from  sunset,  yonder  in  air, 


DEATH  —  DIVINATION  201 

Shines,  through  its  scaffoldings,  a  civic  dome 

Of  piled  masonry,  which  shall  be  ours 

To  give,  completed,  to  our  children  there  .  .  . 

And  yonder  far  roof  of  my  abandoned  home 

Shall  house  new  laughter  .  .  .  Yet  I  tried  ...  I  tried 

And,  ever  wistful  of  the  doom  to  come, 

I  built  her  many  a  fire  for  love  .  .  .  for  mirth  .  .  . 

(When  snows  were  falling  on  our  oaks  outside, 

Dear,  many  a  winter  fire  upon  the  hearth)  .  .  . 

(  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  ) 

We  dare  not  think  too  long  on  those  who  died, 

While  still  so  many  yet  must  come  to  birth. 

William  Ellery  Leonard 


DEATH  —DIVINATION 

DEATH  is  like  moonlight  in  a  lofty  wood, 

That  pours  pale  magic  through  the  shadowy  leaves; 

'T  is  like  the  web  that  some  old  perfume  weaves 
In  a  dim,  lonely  room  where  memories  brood; 
Like  snow-chilled  wine  it  steals  into  the  blood, 

Spurring  the  pulse  its  coolness  half  reprieves; 

Tenderly  quickening  impulses  it  gives, 
As  April  winds  unsheathe  an  opening  bud. 

Death  is  like  all  sweet,  sense-enfolding  things, 
That  lift  us  in  a  dream-delicious  trance 
Beyond  the  flickering  good  and  ill  of  chance; 

But  most  is  Death  like  Music's  buoyant  wings, 
That  bear  the  soul,  a  willing  Ganymede, 
Where  joys  on  joys  forevermore  succeed. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


202          IN  PATRIS  MEI  MEMORIAM 


THE  MOULD 

No  doubt  this  active  will, 
So  bravely  steeped  in  sun, 
This  will  has  vanquished  Death 
And  foiled  oblivion. 


But  this  indifferent  clay, 
This  fine  experienced  hand, 
So  quiet,  and  these  thoughts 
That  all  unfinished  stand, 

Feel  death  as  though  it  were 
A  shadowy  caress; 
And  win  and  wear  a  frail 
Archaic  wistfulness. 

Gladys  Cromwell 


IN  PATRIS  MEI  MEMORIAM 

BY  the  fond  name  that  was  his  own  and  mine, 
The  last  upon  his  lips  that  strove  with  doom, 
He  called  me  and  I  saw  the  light  assume 

A  sudden  glory  and  around  him  shine; 

And  nearer  now  I  saw  the  laureled  line 
Of  the  august  of  Song  before  me  loom, 
And  knew  the  voices,  erstwhile  through  the 
gloom, 

That  whispered  and  forbade  me  to  repine. 

Arid  with  farewell,  a  shaft  of  splendor  sank 
Out  of  the  stars  and  faded  as  a  flame, 


AFTERWARDS  203 


And  down  the  night,  on  clouds  of  glory,  came 
The  battle  seraphs  halting  rank  on  rank; 
And  lifted  heavenward  to  heroic  peace, 

He  passed  and  left  me  hope  beyond  surcease. 
John  Myers  O'Hara 


AD  MATREM  AMANTISSIMAM  ET  CARIS- 
SIMAM   FILII  IN  STERNUM  FIDELITAS 

WITH  all  the  fairest  angels  nearest  God, 

The  ineffable  true  of  heart  around  the  throne, 
There  shall  I  find  you  waiting  when  the  flown 

Dream  leaves  my  heart  insentient  as  the  clod; 

And  when  the  grief-retracing  ways  I  trod 
Become  a  shining  path  to  thee  alone, 
My  weary  feet,  that  seemed  to  drag  as  stone, 

Shall  once  again,  with  wings  of  fleetness  shod, 

Fare  on,  beloved,  to  find  you!   Just  beyond 
The  seraph  throng  await  me,  standing  near 
The  gentler  angels,  eager  and  apart; 

Be  there,  near  God's  own  fairest,  with  the  fond 

Sweet  smile  that  was  your  own,  and  let  me  hear 
Your  voice  again  and  clasp  you  to  my  heart. 
John  Myers  O'Hara 


AFTERWARDS 

THERE  was  a  day  when  death  to  me  meant  tears, 
And  tearful  takings-leave  that  had  to  be, 
And  awed  embarkings  on  an  unshored  sea, 

And  sudden  disarrangement  of  the  years, 
now  I  know  that  nothing  interferes 


204  PIERRETTE  IN  MEMORY 

With  the  fixed  forces  when  a  tired  man  dies; 
That  death  is  only  answerings  and  replies, 
The  chiming  of  a  bell  which  no  one  hears, 
The  casual  slanting  of  a  half-spent  sun, 
The  soft  recessional  of  noise  and  coil, 
The  coveted  something  time  nor  age  can  spoil; 
I  know  it  is  a  fabric  finely  spun 

Between  the  stars  and  dark;  to  seize  and  keep, 
Such  glad  romances  as  we  read  in  sleep. 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 

PIERRETTE  IN  MEMORY 

PIERRETTE  has  gone,  but  it  was  not 

Exactly  that  she  died, 
So  much  as  vanished  and  forgot 

To  tell  where  she  would  hide. 

To  keep  a  sudden  rendezvous, 

It  came  into  her  mind 
That  she  was  late.  What  could  she  do 

But  leave  distress  behind? 

Afraid  of  being  in  disgrace, 

And  hurrying  to  dress, 
She  heard  there  was  another  place 

In  need  of  loveliness. 

She  went  so  softly  and  so  soon, 

She  hardly  made  a  stir; 
But  going  took  the  stars  and  moon 

And  sun  away  with  her. 

William  Griffith 


THE  UNKNOWN  BELOVED  205 

THE  THREE  SISTERS 

GONE  are  the  three,  those  sisters  rare 
With  wonder-lips  and  eyes  ashine. 

One  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 
And  one  was  mine. 

Ye  mourners,  weave  for  the  sleeping  hair 

Of  only  two,  your  ivy  vine. 
For  one  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 

But  one  was  mine. 

Arthur  Davison  Ficke 


SONG 

I  MAKE  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows  — 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair, 
With  stitches  set  in  even  rows, 
I  make  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows. 

In  door-way  where  the  lilac  blows, 
Humming  a  little  wandering  air, 
I  make  my  shroud  and  no  one  knows, 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair. 

Adelaide  Crapsey 


THE  UNKNOWN  BELOVED 

I  DREAMED  I  passed  a  doorway 
Where,  for  a  sign  of  death, 

White  ribbons  one  was  binding 
About  a  flowery  wreath. 


CINQUAINS 


What  drew  me  so  I  know  not, 

But  drawing  near  I  said, 
"Kind  sir,  and  can  you  tell  me 

Who  is  it  here  lies  dead?" 

Said  he,  "Your  most  beloved 

Died  here  this  very  day, 
That  had  known  twenty  Aprils 

Had  she  but  lived  till  May." 

Astonished  I  made  answer, 

"Good  sir,  how  say  you  so! 

Here  have  I  no  beloved, 

This  house  I  do  not  know." 

Quoth  he,  "Who  from  the  world's  end 

Was  destined  unto  thee 
Here  lies,  thy  true  beloved 

Whom  thou  shalt  never  see." 

I  dreamed  I  passed  a  doorway 

Where,  for  a  sign  of  death, 
White  ribbons  one  was  binding 

About  a  flowery  wreath. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

CINQUAINS 

FATE    DEFIED 

As  it 

Were  tissue  of  silver 

I  '11  wear,  O  fate,  thy  grey, 


THE  LONELY  DEATH  207 

And  go  mistily  radiant,  clad 
Like  the  moon. 

NIGHT  WINDS 

THE  old 

Old  winds  that  blew 

When  chaos  was,  what  do 

They  tell  the  clattered  trees  that  I 

Should  weep? 

THE  WARNING 

JUST  now, 

Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  .  . 

A  white  moth  flew  .  .  .  Why  am  I  grown 

So  cold? 

Adelaide  Crapsey 

I 

THE  LONELY  DEATH 

IN  the  cold  I  will  rise,  I  will  bathe 

In  waters  of  ice;  myself 

Will  shiver,  and  shrive  myself, 

Alone  in  the  dawn,  and  anoint 

Forehead  and  feet  and  hands; 

I  will  shutter  the  windows  from  light, 

I  will  place  in  their  sockets  the  four 

Tall  candles  and  set  them  aflame 

In  the  grey  of  the  dawn;  and  myself 

Will  lay  myself  straight  in  my  bed, 

And  draw  the  sheet  under  my  chin. 

Adelaide  Crapsey 


208  LOAM 


EXILE  FROM  GOD 

I  DO  not  fear  to  lay  my  body  down 

In  death,  to  share 
The  life  of  the  dark  earth  and  lose  my  own, 

If  God  is  there. 

I  have  so  loved  all  sense  of  Him,  sweet  might 

Of  color  and  sound,  — 
His  tangible  loveliness  and  living  light 

That  robes  me  'round. 

If  to  His  heart  in  the  hushed  grave  and  dim 

We  sink  more  near, 
It  shall  be  well  —  living  we  rest  in  Him. 

Only  I  fear 

Lest  from  my  God  in  lonely  death  I  lapse, 

And  the  dumb  clod 
Lose  him;  for  God  is  life,  and  death  perhaps 

Exile  from  God. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

LOAM 

IN  the  loam  we  sleep, 
In  the  cool  moist  loam, 
To  the  lull  of  years  that  pass 
And  the  break  of  stars. 

From  the  loam,  then, 
The  soft  warm  loam, 

We  rise: 

To  shape  of  rose  leaf, 
Of  face  and  shoulder. 


THE  LAST  PIPER  209 

We  stand,  then, 

To  a  whiff  of  life, 
Lifted  to  the  silver  of  the  sun 
Over  and  out  of  the  loam 

A  day. 

Carl  Sandburg 


HILLS  OF  HOME 

NAME  me  no  names  for  my  disease, 

With  uninforming  breath; 
I  tell  you  I  am  none  of  these, 

But  homesick  unto  death  — 

Homesick  for  hills  that  I  had  known, 
For  brooks  that  I  had  crossed, 

Before  I  met  this  flesh  and  bone 
And  followed  and  was  lost.  .  .  . 

And  though  they  break  my  heart  at  last, 

Yet  name  no  name  of  ills. 
Say  only,  "Here  is  where  he  passed, 

Seeking  again  those  hills." 

Witter  Bynner 


THE  LAST  PIPER 

DARK  winds  of  the  mountain, 
White  winds  of  the  sea, 
Are  skirling  the  pibroch 
Of  Seumas  an  Righ. 


210  THE  PROVINCES __ 

The  crying  of  gannets, 
The  shrieking  of  terns, 
Are  keening  his  dying 
High  over  the  burns. 

Grey  silence  of  waters 
And  wasting  of  lands 
And  the  wailing  of  music 
Down  to  the  sands, 

The  wailing  of  music, 
And  trailing  of  wind, 
The  waters  before  him, 
The  mountains  behind,  — 

Alone  at  the  gathering, 
Silent  he  stands, 
And  the  wail  of  his  piping 
Cries  over  the  lands, 

To  the  moan  of  the  waters, 
The  drone  of  the  foam, 
Where  his  soul,  a  white  gannet, 
Wings  silently  home. 

Edward  J.  O'Brien 


THE  PROVINCES 

0  God  that  I 

May  arise  with  the  Gael 
To  the  song  in  the  sky 

Over  Jnisfail! 


OMNIUM  EXEUNT  IN  MYSTERIUM    21 

Ulster,  your  dark 

Mold  for  me; 
Minister,  a  lark 

Hold  for  me! 

Connaght,  a  caoine 

Croon  for  me; 
Lienster,  a  mean 

Stone  for  me! 

0  God  that  I 

May  arise  with  the  Gael 
To  the  song  in  the  sky 

Over  Inisfail! 

Francis  Carlin 

OMNIUM  EXEUNT  IN  MYSTERIUM 

THE  stranger  in  my  gates  —  lo !  that  am  I, 
And  what  my  land  of  birth  I  do  not  know, 
Nor  yet  the  hidden  land  to  which  I  go. 
One  may  be  lord  of  many  ere  he  die, 
And  tell  of  many  sorrows  in  one  sigh, 
But  know  himself  he  shall  not,  nor  his  woe, 
Nor  to  what  sea  the  tears  of  wisdom  flow; 
Nor  why  one  star  is  taken  from  the  sky. 
An  urging  is  upon  him  evermore, 
And  though  he  bide,  his  soul  is  wanderer, 
Scanning  the  shadows  with  a  sense  of  haste  — 
Where  fade  the  tracks  of  all  who  went  before: 
A  dim  and  solitary  traveller 
On  ways  that  end  in  evening  and  the  waste. 

George  Sterling 


OLD  AGE 


MOTH-TERROR 

I  HAVE  killed  the  moth  flying  around  my  night-light; 

wingless  and  dead  it  lies  upon  the  floor. 
(O  who  will  kill  the  great  Time-Moth  that  eats  holes 

in  my  soul  and  that  burrows  in  and  through 

my  secretest  veils!) 
My  will  against  its  will,  and  no  more  will  it  fly  at  my 

night-light  or  be  hidden  behind  the  curtains 

that  swing  in  the  winds. 
(But  O  who  will  shatter  the  Change-Moth  that  leaves 

me  in  rags  —  tattered  old  tapestries  that  swing 

in  the  winds  that  blow  out  of  Chaos!) 
Night-Moth,   Change-Moth,   Time-Moth,   eaters   of 

dreams  and  of  me! 

Benjamin  De  Casseres 


OLD  AGE 

I  HAVE  heard  the  wild  geese, 

I  have  seen  the  leaves  fall, 

There  was  frost  last  night 

On  the  garden  wall. 

It  is  gone  to-day 

And  I  hear  the  wind  call. 

The  wind?  .  .  .That  is  all. 

If  the  swallow  will  light 
When  the  evening  is  near; 
If  the  crane  will  not  scream 
Like  a  soul  in  fear; 


ATROPOS  213 


I  will  think  no  more 
Of  the  dying  year, 
And  the  wind,  its  seer. 

Cole  Young  Rice 

ATROPOS 

ATROPOS,  dread 

One  of  the  Three, 
Holding  the  thread 

Woven  for  me; 

Grimly  thy  shears, 

Steely  and  bright, 
Menace  the  years 

Left  for  delight. 

Grant  it  may  chance, 

Just  as  they  close, 
June  may  entrance 

Earth  with  the  rose;        • 

Reigning  as  though, 

Bliss  to  the  breath, 
Endless  and  no 

Whisper  of  death. 

John  Myers  O'Hara 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

AIKEN,  CONRAD 50,  87.  99 

AKINS,  ZOE 52 

ANDERSON,  MARGARET  STEELE       .  29,  76 

ARENSBERG,  WALTER  CONRAD 86,  180 

BAKER,  KARLE  WILSON 82,  90 

BATES,  KATHARINE  LEE 13 

BENET,  STEPHEN  VINCENT 164 

BENET,  WILLIAM  ROSE 30,  111 

BRADLEY,  WILLIAM  ASPINWALL 182 

BRANCH,  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD 20,  112,  135 

BURNET,  DANA 120 

BURR,  AMELIA  JOSEPHINE 54,  68 

BURT,  MAXWELL  STRUTHERS 93 

BYNNER,  WITTER 62,100,170,172,209 

CARLIN,  FRANCIS 78,  210 

CLEGHORN,  SARAH  N 139 

CONKLING,  GRACE  HAZARD 86,  167,  177 

CORBIN,  ALICE 143 

Cox,  ELEANOR  ROGERS 32,  73 

CRAPSEY,  ADELAIDE 203,  206,  207 

CROMWELL,  GLADYS 202 

DARGAN,  OLIVE  TILFORD       15 

DAVIES,  MARY  CAROLYN 6,  66,  162 

DAVIS,  FANNIE  STEARNS 128,  191 

DE  CASSERES,  BENJAMIN 212 

DRISCOLL,  LOUISE 52 

FICKE,  ARTHUR  DAVISON 74,  205 

FISHER,  MAHLON  LEONARD 85,  203 


216  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

FLETCHER,  JOHN  GOULD 4, 153 

FOSTER,  JEANNE  ROBERT       181 

FROST,  ROBERT 3,  91,  116,  185 

GARRISON,  THEODOSIA 119 

GILTINAN,  CAROLINE 27 

GRIFFITH,  WILLIAM 5,  204 

GUITERMAN,  ARTHUR 27,  28 

H.  D 101,  102 

HAGEDORN,  HERMANN 158,  195 

HARDING,  RUTH  GUTHRIE 74 

HOYT,  HELEN 82 

JOHNS,  ORRICK 18,  31,  145 

JONES,  THOMAS  S.,  JR 7,  22,  51 

KEMP,  HARRY 13 

KILMER,  ALINE         127,  132,  133 

KILMER,  JOYCE 12,  26,  159,  165 

KREYMBORG,  ALFRED 12,  98 

LEE,  AGNES 111,172 

LEE,  MUNA 182 

LEDOUX,  Louis  V 124,  128,  132 

LEONARD,  WILLIAM  ELLERY 65,  199 

LINDSAY,  VACHEL 37,  63,  71,  157 

LOWELL,  AMY 72,  103,  105,  140,  178 

MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE       148,  196 

MlDDLETON,  SCUDDER          69,  76 

MILLAY,  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT 84,  188,  189 

MONROE,  HARRIET        14,  97' 

MORGAN,  ANGELA         75,  170 

MORTON,  DAVID       3,  51,  173 

NEIHARDT,  JOHN  G 124 

NORTON,  GRACE  FALLOW 47 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  217 

O'BRIEN,  EDWARD  J 163,  209 

O'CONOR,  NORREYS  JEPHSON  77,  191 

O'HARA,  JOHN  MYERS 202,  203,  213 

O  SHEEL,  SHAEMAS 69 

OPPENHEIM,  JAMES 99,  104,  194 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON 67,  119,  121 

PERCY,  WILLIAM  ALEXANDER 189 

PIPER,  EDWIN  FORD 184 

RICE,  GALE  YOUNG 19,  25,  96,  212 

ROBINSON,  CORINNE  ROOSEVELT 81,  177 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON 33,  109,  145 

SANDBURG,  CARL 48,  179,  188,  208 

SCHAUFFLER,  ROBERT  HAVEN 159,  169 

SEEGER,  ALAN         164 

SHANAFELT,  CLARA 20 

SHEPHERD,  ODELL        196 

SMITH,  MAY  RILEY 141 

SPEYER,  LEONORA 83,  168 

STERLING,  GEORGE 48,  134,  211 

STORK,  CHARLES  WHARTON       110,  201 

TEASDALE,  SARA 5,  8,  45,  84 

TIETJENS,  EUNICE        95 

TORRENCE,  RlDGELY 56,    142 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON 55,  94,  110 

UNTERMEYER,  JEAN  STARR 186 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis 29,  90,  134 

WALSH,  THOMAS 80,  120 

WATTLES,  WILLARD 26,  144,  173 

WHEELOCK,  JOHN  HALL 9,  195,  205,  208 

WIDDEMER,  MARGARET 70,  181,  194,  199 

WILKINSON,  FLORENCE 175 

WILKINSON,  MARGUERITE 79,  115 

WOOD,  CLEMENT 6,  171,  192 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood 15 

A  wind  rose  in  the  night        133 

All  day  long  I  have  been  working 103 

All  the  men  of  Harbury  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  .     .     52 

Always  —  I  tell  you  this  they  learned  — 117 

April  now  walks  the  fields  again 168 

As  I  went  over  the  Far  Hill 78 

As  it 206 

At  the  first  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Arise  "...      4 

Atropos,  dread 213 

Autumn  in  Oregon  is  wet  as  Spring 162 

Be  not  angry  with  me  that  I  bear 178 

Be  patient,  Life,  when  Love  is  at  the  gate 180 

Because  on  the  branch  that  is  tapping  my  pane  ...    27 

Because  we  felt  there  could  not  be 62 

Before  I  die  I  may  be  great 115 

Behind  the  house  is  the  millet  plot 182 

Beloved,  till  the  day  break 119 

Bend  now  thy  body  to  the  common  weight  ....  29 
Blake  saw  a  treeful  of  angels  at  Peckham  Rye  .  .  .  .111 

Booth  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum 63 

Brother  Tree 12 

But  now  the  Dream  has  come  again,  the  world  is  as  of  old  20 
By  the  fond  name  that  was  his  own  and  mine  .  .  .  202 
By  the  rosy  cliffs  of  Devon,  on  a  green  hill's  crest  .  .  68 

Cold  is  the  wind  to-night,  and  rough  the  sea  .  .  .  .191 
Come,  when  the  pale  moon  like  a  petal 45 

Dark  winds  of  the  mountain 209 

Dear,  when  I  went  with  you 79 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  219 

Death  is  like  moonlight  in  a  lofty  wood 201 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  me 74 

Down  by  the  railroad  in  a  green  valley 56 

Drowsily  come  the  sheep       124 

Earth  has  gone  up  from  its  Gethsemane 169 

Fifty  years  spent  before  I  found  me 93 

Good-bye  to  tree  and  tower       77 

Gone  are  the  three,  those  sisters  rare 205 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 9 

Great  god  whom  I  shall  carve  from  this  gray  stone  .     .     28 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  trails,  the  trails 184 

He  was  straight  and  strong  and  his  eyes  were  blue   .     .     54 

Heartbreak  that  is  too  new 66 

Here  in  the  level  country,  where  the  creeks  run  straight 

and  wide 182 

"How,  how,"  he  said.   "Friend  Chang,"  I  said    .     .     .    37 

How  many  million  Aprils  came 8 

How  may  one  hold  these  days  of  wonderment      ...     22 

How  memory  cuts  away  the  years 186 

How  much  of  Godhood  did  it  take 134 

I  am  all  alone  in  the  room 128 

am  in  love  with  high,  far-seeing  places 74 

'.  am  not  old,  but  old  enough 69 

am  the  Dark  Cavalier;  I  am  the  Last  Lover  ....  199 

am  the  still  rain  falling       45 

asked  the  heaven  of  stars 46 

cannot  but  remember 189 

cannot  tell  you  now        179 

cannot  think  nor  reason 26 

I  cried  over  beautiful  things  knowing  no  beautiful  thing 
lasts 188 

I  'd  rather  have  the  thought  of  you 75 


220  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

I  do  not  fear  to  lay  my  body  down 208 

I  dreamed  I  passed  a  doorway        205 

!  envy  the  feeble  old  man 69 

flung  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying  ....  30 

have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 164 

have  an  understanding  with  the  hills 86 

have  heard  the  wild  geese        212 

I  have  killed  the  moth  flying  around  my  night-light      .  212 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea      .  196 

I  heard  a  bird  at  break  of  day        189 

I  heard  a  cry  in  the  night 45 

I  heard  an  old  farm-wife 142 

I  know  the  sorrows  of  the  last  abyss       65 

I  know  you  are  too  dear  to  stay 132 

I  make  my  shroud  but  no  one  knows 205 

I  never  knew  the  earth  had  so  much  gold 90 

I  pass  a  lighted  window 192 

I  saw  the  first  pear 101 

I  sing  of  sorrow 66 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 12 

I  've  seen  her  pass  with  eyes  upon  the  road     .     .     .     .143 

I  walk  down  the  garden  paths 105 

I  went  out  to  the  farthest  meadow 47 

I  will  be  the  gladdest  thing 84 

If  you  should  tire  of  loving  me 70 

In  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet 165 

In  came  the  moon  and  covered  me  with  wonder        .     .100 

In  spite  of  war,  in  spite  of  death 170 

In  the  cold  I  will  rise,  I  will  bathe 207 

In  the  loam  we  sleep 208 

In  the  still  cold  before  the  sun        139 

In  the  very  early  morning  when  the  light  was  low    .     .145 

In  Tilbury  Town  did  Old  King  Cole       145 

In  youth  my  wings  were  strong  and  tireless     .     .     .     .151 

Is  there  no  voice  in  the  world  to  come  crying       .     .     .  .19 

It  is  moonlight.   Alone  in  the  silence 99 

It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  and  in  the  morning     ...  87 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


It  is  not  Spring  —  not  yet     ..........      6 

It  is  portentous  and  a  thing  of  state  .......  157 

It  was  too  lonely  for  her  there  .........  118 

Jerico,  Jerico        ..............  173 

John  Brown  and  Jeanne  at  Fontainebleau  .....  175 

Just  now    ................  207 

Kenton  and  Deborah,  Michael  and  Rose     .....  1527 

Let  it  be  forgotten  as  a  flower  is  forgotten       ....  46 

Let  others  give  you  wealth  and  love       ......  128 

Like  a  gaunt  scraggly  pine    ..........  153 

Like  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door    ....  193 

Little  brown  surf-bather  of  the  mountains       ....  97 

Little  park  that  I  pass  through      ........  82 

Lord  Gabriel,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice     .......  121 

Lord,  in  this  hour  of  tumult      .........  158 

Mine  eyes  are  filled  today  with  old  amaze   .....    85 

Mother,  in  some  sad  evening  long  ago     ......  134 

Music  I  heard  with  you  was  more  than  music      ...    50 
My  brother,  man,  shapes  him  a  plan       ......    96 

My  faith  is  all  a  doubtful  thing      ........      3 

My  father  got  me  strong  and  straight  and  slim    .     .     .115 
My  land  was  the  west  land,  my  home  was  on  the  hill    .  120 
My  long  two-pointed  ladder  's  sticking  through  a  tree   .  185 
My  love  it  should  be  silent,  being  deep   ......  119 

My  shoulders  ache  beneath  my  pack       ......  159 

Name  me  no  names  for  my  disease      .......  209 

Nevermore  singing        ............  167 

No  doubt  this  active  will       ..........  202 

O  bitter  herb,  Forgetfulness       .........  181 

O  clinging  hands,  and  eyes  where  sleep  has  set     .     .     .132 
O  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun     .....  199 


222  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

O  Glass-Blower  of  time 20 

O  God  that  I       210 

O  wind,  rend  open  the  heat        102 

0  world,  I  cannot  hold  thee  close  enough 188 

O'er  Carmel  fields  in  the  springtime  the  sea-gulls  fol 
low  the  plow         48 

Oh,  cut  me  reeds  to  blow  upon 177 

Oh,  praise  me  not  the  silent  folk 110 

One  glance  and  I  had  lost  her  in  the  riot 196 

One  ought  not  to  have  to  care        116 

Order  is  a  lovely  thing 135 

Our  little  house  upon  the  hill 120 

Out  of  me,  unworthy  and  unknown 153 

Out  of  the  lights  and  roar  of  cities 149 

Out  of  the  window  a  sea  of  green  trees 84 

Over  and  over 67 

Pan,  blow  your  pipes  and  I  will  be 83 

Pierrette  has  gone,  but  it  was  not       204 

Reading  in  Ovid  the  sorrowful  story  of  Itys     ....  150 

Rich,  honored  by  my  fellow  citizens 148 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  what  do  you  cover 55 

She  follows  me  about  my  House  of  Life 141 

She  goes  all  so  softly 163 

She  had  no  saying  dark  enough 117 

Sleep  on  —  I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels 195 

Softly  at  dawn  a  whisper  stole        5 

Some  days  my  thoughts  are  just  cocoons 82 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  of  heaven    ....  95 

Spring 7 

Suddenly  bells  and  flags 172 

Sun  on  the  dewy  grasslands  where  late  the  frost  hath 

shone           80 

Tell  me 72 

That  overnight  a  rose  could  come 27 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  223 

The  bells  of  Oseney 25 

The  bride  she  wears  a  white,  white  rose 76 

The  day  before  April 6 

The  first  faint  dawn  was  flushing  up  the  skies      ...     13 

The  hills  far-off  were  blue,  blue 67 

The  kings  are  passing  deathward  in  the  dark  ....  173 
The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where      ...     33 

The  old 207 

The  ships  are  lying  in  the  bay 52 

The  sky 98 

The  snow  is  lying  very  deep Ill 

The  Spring  blew  trumpets  of    olor 13 

The  Spring  will  come  when  the  year  turns        ....  181 
The  stranger  in  my  gates  —  lo!  that  am  I        ....  211 

The  swan  existing 86 

The  Wide  Door  into  Sorrow 191 

There  be  five  things  to  a  man's  desire 144 

There  is  a  memory  stays  upon  old  ships 51 

There  's  a  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 81 

There  's  nothing  very  beautiful  and  nothing  very  gay   .     18 
There  was  a  day  when  death  to  me  meant  tears   .     .     .  203 

There  were  not  many  at  that  lonely  place 164 

There  will  come  soft  rain  and  the  smell  of  the  ground   .       5 

They  brought  me  ambrotypes 151 

Though  wisdom  underfoot 170 

To-day  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the  trees  .     90 

To-night  eternity  alone  is  near       51 

Tired  of  man's  futile,  petty  cry 171 

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood S 

Under  our  curtain  of  fire 159 

Vain  is  the  chiming  of  forgotten  bells 26 

We  ask  that  love  shall  rise  to  the  divine 177 

Well,  if  the  thing  is  over,  better  it  is  for  me    .    .     .    .  194 
What  though  the  moon  should  come 31 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


What  sudden  bugle  calls  us  in  the  night      .....  29 

What  waspish  whim  of  Fate       .........  32 

When  Dragon-fly  would  fix  his  wings      ......  71 

When  he  went  blundering  back  to  God        .....  110 

When  I  come  back  from  secret  dreams    ......  112 

When  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right       ....  91 

When  sick  of  all  the  sorrow  and  distress      .....  94 

When  the  rose  of  Morn  through  the  Dawn  was  breaking  73 
Whenever  Richard  Cory  went  down  town   .     .     .     .     .109 

Where  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate   .....  194 

Whether  the  time  be  slow  or  fast  ........  172 

Who  is  the  runner  in  the  skies  .........  99 

Why  should  we  argue  with  the  falling  dust      ....  76 

With  all  the  fairest  angels  nearest  God   ......  203 

Would  you  not  be  in  Tryon  ..........  14 

Ye  morning-glories,  ring  in  the  gale  your  bells     .     .     .104 
Yearly  thrilled  the  plum  tree     .........  124 

You  are  beautiful  and  faded      .........  140 

Your  eyes  and  the  valley  are  memories  ......     48 

Your  kiss  lies  on  my  face       ..........     66 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LD 

— 

NOV  14  1957 


3  LD 

MAY  2V  B62 


.u 

TCuIT 


1961 


'62  C 


LD  21A-50w-8,'57 
(C8481slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


I A  (MO  ft 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


